


make off like a band(it)

by thespiritscalling



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Band Camp AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-06-30 09:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespiritscalling/pseuds/thespiritscalling
Summary: It's the summer after graduation. Race is ready to hit the road- metaphorically, of course- but before that happens, it's time for one last stint at the Camp To End All Camps: band camp.Armed with nothing more than a French horn, two best friends, and reckless abandon, Race decides it's going to be the best final year of camp anyone's ever had. It'll be full of excitement, laughter, music, and an absurd crush on the lead trumpet player.Wait. What?





	1. The Reckoning (or, Teenage Boys with Loud Instruments)

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't just any ordinary summer camp au. ohh no.  
> prepare yourselves for the best band camp you've ever seen.   
> <3

_“Good morning, Vietnam! Welcome to Racetrack’s Documentation of All Things Musical- if you’re just tuning in, this is where we’ve left off-”_

_“Race, this is Snapchat, not a smash hit TV series.”_

_“Fuck off, Jack, this is comedy gold.”_

-

_The viewfinder focuses briefly on the road ahead. In the background, a chorus of loud and off-key teenage voices sing along to Jukebox Hero with the windows down._

-

_“So, we’re on our way to camp,” says Race, panning the camera around to Jack in the driver’s seat and Charlie in the backseat, hoarding a pile of giant chip bags. “It’s eleven a.m. and we’ve already been on the road for three hours. We’ve gotten through the entirety of the Les Miserables soundtrack, a collection of the best parts of the Awesome Mixes, and now we’re onto Jack’s shitty eighties playlist.”_

_Charlie, from the back, says, “You secretly love it.” He reaches a hand inside the bag resting against his inner thigh and produces a Dorito. “Here, crunch out your frustrations.”_

_“Thank you.”_

-

_A zoom-in on Jack’s face as he concentrates deeply on both driving and chanting: “Band camp, band camp, band camp, band camp, band camp.”_

-

Race has been tired since six in the morning. Really, it’s been since the very moment he woke up, because it’s summer and too ungodly early in the morning to be dealing with any sort of life- let alone figure out what sort of packing and preparing he still has to do before Jack rolls up in his decked-out four-wheel hatchback set to cruise control with a roommate in the backseat.

That’s not to say that he’s not excited about this whole endeavour, oh no – there’s a certain thrill of the road trip, of the five-hour trek across open country roads to get to the true highlight of summer. Charlie has been texting their group chat since February, consistently counting down the days to this very morning. Out of the three of them, he is the one most equally stressed and overly enthusiastic about the whole endeavour.

Flutehood, Race decides, is therefore not to be taken lightly. He wouldn’t know. As a brass player, he prides himself on stupid harmonics and the lack of confusing keys. Jack doesn’t even have keys to press. Lucky bastard.

So, because he’s so _damnably_ excited for the weeks to come, Race drags himself out of bed and makes himself a cup of oatmeal because all of the bowls are in the dishwasher and tries not to wake up his family by running the shower for longer than necessary. All his necessary belongings- _toothbrush, check, toothpaste, check, don’t forget your horn, Higgins_ \- have been neatly arranged by the front door for easy transportation.

And Jack shows up at eight o’clock on the dot.

“This is the most punctual you’ve ever been,” Race relates as he throws his suitcase on the pile in the trunk. His mother stands in the doorway of their home, waving with a fond smile as Race blows her a kiss and jumps into the passenger seat. Jack looks thoroughly affronted by the accusation.

“That’s a lie,” says Jack. “Charlie, tell him that’s a lie.”

“What time is it?” asks Charlie.

“Eight oh three.”

Charlie laughs. “Oh, Jack, he’s got you good. You were right on time.”

Jack pulls out of the driveway and Race slips off his shoes in order to put his feet on the dash. They’re still heavily in the city, which means that it’s too early to pull down the windows and turn up the volume, but Charlie picks a bag off the pile of chips and tosses it over the console to Race’s lap. “Here. You get these.”

Race tilts the bag up to check the flavour. “Sour cream and onion? Really, Crutch?”

Charlie hums. “You get what you deserve. Besides, the only one who should be complaining is Jack. He’s gonna have to put up with your disgusting breath for five hours.”

Race throws the bag emphatically backwards.

 

The moment they pass city limits, Race screams “ _Shotgun music!_ ” and leaps at the CD collection that sits in the glove compartment of Jack’s car. Until this point, the radio has been set resolutely to one of the six New Pop stations on air, volume relatively high, but the music Race has been looking forward to sits in the battered double CD case that he just _knows_ is somewhere in this compartment.

He hides the cover until the disc is in the machine and the first notes of the overture ring out, and Charlie screeches so loudly Jack nearly hits the brake.

-

_“FUCK ME UP. FUCK. ME. UP. JEAN VALJEAN COULD STOMP ON MY SOUL AND I’D THANK HIM FOR THE OPPORTUNITY.”_

-

Jack finds a rest stop somewhere between the probably-haunted Super Eight and Gasoline Alley. It’s enough for each of them to get out and stretch, to throw away any empty bags, and to restock on coffee and energy drinks before they hit the road again. They’ve still got another hour before they finally reach Camp Campus, as they’ve so gracefully named it, but the post-Les-Miserables eighties playlist has devolved into a mix of pop-punk ballads and the entirety of Charlie’s Unpopular Theatre playlist, which is not keeping them awake in the slightest.

“So,” Race says once they’ve started driving again, pulling out his phone to document the most recent of their travels. “Band camp!”

He’s in the back now, delighted in his newfound possession of their giant snack collection, as Jack slides back into gear and Charlie watches happily out the windshield. A quick glance behind him reveals that Jack’s trombone case is the cause of the clattering noise that started not two minutes ago- somehow, it’s managed to catch on one of the suitcases and unlatch- but it’s too late now to close. 

“Band camp,” Charlie reiterates. “God. Part of me is nervous because I’ve heard this year’s flute section is going to be _massive._ I’m not prepared for failure.”

Jack, who is definitely _not allowed to laugh because there have only ever been three to four trombones,_ laughs. “Just please ‘em with your light and tinkly vacuum noises and loud screeching. You’ll be fine.”

“Jack, I will shove my entire piccolo up your ass without hesitating.” Charlie takes a handful of chips and shoves them all into his mouth at once. “Neither of you have to deal with competition. Your sections are always buddy-buddy all the time.”

“ _Boy,_ ” Jack emphasizes, “you know _nothing._ Don’t you remember last year’s rant about Tuba Kid?”

Race says nothing. He’s almost guaranteed first this year, being the oldest in his section, but placement really and truly doesn’t matter. The horn section is fabulously good at equalization and making sure each player gets their fair share of difficulty, which is phenomenal for its reputation both inside and outside of camp.

-

_“Say it with me, Jack: trombones suck.”_

_“Never.”_

_“I will poke you until you start bleeding.”_

_“If you do that, who’s gonna drive us the rest of the way there?”_

-

This isn’t necessarily the beginning of the adventure. The true adventure, to be most precise, began in second grade with the introduction of Race to Jack and Charlie. One could say the adventure started the moment each of them picked up a piece of music.

Race’s adventure with the horn began in the seventh grade, on the very first day of band class. Jack’s was around the same. Charlie, naturally, had already been playing flute for enough time that he was urged to pick up something different.

Because who doesn’t love smashing some drums as a side job?

There’s a reason Charlie sticks to what he knows.

 

The resounding cheer when they finally reach campus is overwhelming, and Race is sure they can be heard from the far reaches of the outer world. This is, after all, their last year attending this summer home, and if they can’t be loud and proud about it there would be no reason to be here.

-

_Jack is out of the car, and the camera sees him through the back passenger window as he spins in a circle a-la-The Sound of Music, still chanting: “BAND CAMP. BAND CAMP. BAND CAMP. BAND CAMP. BAND CAMP.”_

-

Check-in is relatively uneventful. Some of the counselors are ones Race recognizes from previous years- notably the twins, Tiki and Talon, and the camp medic, Nebula- and some look completely new. Jack digs his elbow into his side the moment they meet Plato, and Race will discover later- as in, one a.m.- that Jack and Plato are friends, and Jack had no idea she would be back, and Race will reply _shut up, Jack, I need to sleep._

The point is, familiar faces or not, the three of them are ready to absolutely _rock_ band camp off its heels. This place will remember them, no question.

Jack, despite being the one who has to actually focus on parking and therefore is not the first person out of the car, beats Race in the short sprint to the front door of their dorm and triumphantly stuffs his key in the lock with a short exclamation. “Welcome to our apartment, gentlemen,” he says, swinging the door open and coming face-to-face with another closed door.

“Smooth,” says Race.

“ _Welcome,_ ” Jack repeats, opening the next door, “to our apartment, gentlemen.” Beyond the second door is a hallway leading to a small sitting area and the kitchen, along with two bedrooms and a bathroom next to the staircase to the upper level. The entire place is just a little bit cramped- it’s hard to pass each other without one leaning flat against the wall- but it works.

Charlie, who has sidled into the house after both Jack and Race, holds up his keys and grins. “Ground floor, assholes. I’m gonna be the only one sleeping soundly at night.”

Race, whose bedroom is on the second floor in the famed Hellhole of Heat, allows himself a moment of grief. “I can’t believe it. We don’t even know Lucky Number Four yet and he’s gonna be the other one without overheating problems. Christ.”

The apartments are built for four people to share. A good portion of the car ride to camp was spent speculating about the identity of said mysterious fourth person and how they would react to everything that the three of them get up to in two weeks- if they’d request a room transfer within five minutes of meeting them- and Jack had said _it’s entirely possible,_ as though they were just that odd.

-

_“Hey guys, I’m Jack Kelly, and welcome to my crib-”_

_“Jack! How the fuck did you open my phone?”_

_The picture, which was briefly on Jack holding his arms open in the sitting room, shakes as Race dives for control of his phone._

-

Auditions are a breeze of nerves and exhilaration as Charlie mourns the betrayal of his fingers and Race curses harmonics for the fourth time in the day- they’ve been counting. The Keys Argument appears twice more during dinner, and Jack stuffs his face with mediocre cafeteria food during it all. At Juniper’s _Welcome to Camp_ announcement, he is the one who cheers the loudest..

After dinner, it’s time for icebreakers and introductions to everyone new. Jack leans over the table right before they clean up and whispers, “We’ve got this.”

They do.

Just because he wants to, Race grabs Jack’s hand on the way out to the courtyard, and as soon as they meet up with Charlie he grabs his elbow as well. “The three amigos,” he says gravely. “Nothing can split us apart.”

They sit together on the one picnic bench in the courtyard, having politely kicked off some first-year intermediate campers. Juniper stands on a table across the courtyard and shouts her introduction to camp, leading onto the counselor introduction with a swoop of the arms.

Jack gets excited again when Plato introduces herself. Race idly wonders if that’s going to happen for the entirety of the two weeks, if Jack will get excited whenever Plato opens her mouth, but it’s not the focus at the moment. He recognizes another counselor, Stone, from a previous year- a clarinet, maybe?- and with an abrupt start, he realizes that these next two weeks are going to be the most fantastic weeks of his life.

Juniper splits the campers up into icebreaker groups. Jack, Race, and Charlie are together in a group- thank _god_ \- and are assigned to Plato and another counselor nicknamed Freddi. Jack, at this point, is ready to burst.

-

_A selfie featuring Race and Jack, with Charlie doing finger-guns in the background. Caption: we’re ready to rock this!_

-

After a few name games, it’s time for one that Freddi introduces as First Impressions as he passes out sheets of paper. The way the game works, he explains, is that each person writes their first impression of everyone else in the circle on their own separate sheets of paper, and at the end they’ll have something nice to read about themselves.

Because Race is sitting on the most right-hand side of the three amigos, he gets to write on their sheets first. On Jack’s he writes _meme,_ because it seems fitting, and on Charlie’s he writes _wicked bada--,_ hoping that the counselors won’t reprimand the language.

And then there’s the person on Charlie’s left side, who introduced himself as Spot, who is damnably attractive in all ways possible and Race is pretty sure that if he wrote down his real first impression he’d explode from embarrassment.

_Be my friend,_ he writes instead. The papers progress.

There’s another team of best friends in the group, and they seem to have had the same idea as Race because when the taller one reads out her notes she also gets the word _meme,_ and the shorter gets _o.g. friend, fun times ahead._ Neither of them Race has seen before, but they’ve got such a spunk that he’s glad they’re around to dampen the way his eyes seem to draw towards Spot of their own volition.

Because they do. And Race is having significant difficulty focusing on anything but Spot.

Jack seems to notice his lack of attention and leans over to whisper, "Damn, it's been like two minutes."

"Definitely at least ten," whispers Race, and then they forget about it until it's time to stand up and Race gets a view of Spot's painfully revealing skinny jeans.

Christ.

-

_“Who’s the Big Booty? Who is it?”_

_“I am!”_

_(From off-camera) “Jack, you’re too excited.”_

-

Icebreakers finished, it's just a tour left- one which Race could easily quote word-for-word- and then they're off to their dorms for an early night to settle in. He knows that an early night means that neither he nor Jack are going to bed before midnight- Charlie might be sensible, because he's actually one of those people- but most importantly, it means meeting the poor soul who got stuck with the three of them.

Jack reveals a box of Oreos from one of the kitchen cupboards and opens it with a flourish. "Snacks," he says, like it needs explaining. He promptly stuffs three in his mouth and carries a fourth one around the kitchen until he has room for it.

Charlie enters the sitting area a few minutes later, holding a board game board in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. "I brought Trouble," he announces.

"You are trouble," teases Jack. "No question."

Race makes grabby-hands. "Dibs on red."

"Wait for a bit," Charlie admonishes. He sets the board down on the table and lets Jack tear open the bag of game pieces as he wanders into the kitchen himself. From the fridge he produces an apple- which Race could have sworn wasn't there an hour ago- and spins in a full circle before saying, "I don't have a knife."

"There's plastic cutlery in the cupboard next to the nonexistent microwave," Jack says.

"Plastic cutlery. Wow. That'll do me wonders."

Jack shrugs, significantly more enthralled with the game in front of him.

So Race sets about reading the rules of Trouble off his phone as Charlie struggles to cut an apple with a plastic knife. It's not ideal by any means, but somehow he makes his way back to the table with a paper plate piled with apple slices. One slice is balanced between his lips.

He sets down the plate opposite from Race, who glances up when he reaches out with a slice in his hand. "Oh, thanks, man."

Jack and Charlie stare at him as he reaches out to take the slice.

"Dude," says Charlie, appalled. "That was in my mouth."

"What?"

Suddenly the reason for his reaching out becomes evident as Charlie yanks his sleeve forward. He's beginning the familiar process of removing his crutches, assuming they'll be at the table for long enough that he won't need them for at least another half hour, and he is most definitely not offering Race an apple slice.

"Christ," says Race, knocking his head down onto the table. "I think I need sleep."

"You're not getting it." Jack reaches out to flick him in the ear. "It's Trouble Time, my dude."

The game takes an unreasonably long amount of time. Race wins, though, which seems to be some sort of positive retribution for the whole apple embarrassment. Somehow, he knows he’ll never live it down.

-

_Taylor Swift's 'Trouble' can be heard in the background as the video zooms in on Race's victorious game pieces. Jack is screaming along to the song._

-

"I think our basement is haunted."

-

They get yelled at to turn out their lights, which is fantastic when literally all of the lights in their apartment are on. Race and Jack have a competition to see who can shut off more and they nearly end up putting a hole in the stairwell wall, having slammed into each other at the bottom.  
There has been no sign of a fourth roommate.

"I think his name should be Joseph the Third," says Race. There's a toothbrush in his mouth, so it sounds more like _Hosep he Hird,_ but Jack understands it just fine.

"What happened to the first and second Josephs?" Jack calls from the bedroom. True to their word, it's past midnight, and Charlie is supposedly asleep- although the floors creak with every step, so Race is left to wonder if they’re just keeping him awake.

He spits into the sink and says, "They were murdered. By the clarinets and their high notes."

"That's a low blow, considering you sit right behind them."

"That's the point." Shutting off the bathroom light plunges them into full darkness, the streetlamps outside letting off just enough light to allow Race to navigate back to his own room. "I can't deal, normally."

He and Jack share a bed-wall, so they've already worked out a system of Morse code that they can use when it's three in the morning and Jack has a nightmare that leaves him shaking. The wall itself seems to have a lack of insulation, which means they can hear each other just fine without keeping the doors open. Jack seems sure it’ll come in handy many, many times.

"What does Joseph the Third play?"

Race thinks on it for a moment. "Oboe. Aren't we missing one?"

"Shit," Jack says after a short silence. "You're right."

"Huh."

It's quiet for a moment. Race thinks of bidding Jack good-night until Jack speaks again.

"Maybe the first and seconds are haunting our basement."

"They'll appear in the middle of the night and wake up Charlie with their infernal screeching."

"Maybe he's gonna be next. Wouldn't that be kind of pathetic, though? Who wants to be killed by a clarinet?"

"Don't be rude to the Josephs, I'm sure they feel bad enough as it is."

"Charlie'll be fine. He's got earplugs, doesn't he? They'll protect him from the ghosties."

It dawns on Race that it's definitely close to one in the morning and that the first day of camp is usually the longest. "You need sleep, Jack."

"Pfft. Who needs sleep? Not this boy." Jack sounds distinctly tired, like he's constantly stifling a   
yawn.

"Good-night, Jack."

"Nighty-o, Racer. Dream of skinny jeans."

"Shut the fuck up."

-

_Black photo. Caption: back at camp with jack & joseph III. see y'all on the flip side. xx streaks_


	2. Day One (or, The Yell-O Jell-O)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Race remembers abruptly what camp life is like, not for the first time and certainly not the last.

Race wakes up to a pounding on his bedroom door and one of the counselors screaming, “ _They’re coming! They’re gonna destroy us!_ ”

It’s as good as mass-counselor-panic is going to get, so he throws open his door and regards the blurry figure of Talon with a raised eyebrow.

“Mornin’,” says Talon, grinning. “Breakfast is at eight!”

" _Why,_ ” Race says. He’s still mostly asleep. Talon is already halfway down the stairs and gives a small whoop before running right out the front door of the apartment.

Jack is standing in his own doorway, looking only marginally more awake than Race feels. “Huh,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I forgot about that.”

“You didn’t really.”

Instead of answering, Jack stumbles down the stairs in an attempt to feel a little more awake and says, “Hey, Crutch, how’s life?”

Race turns back into his room and begins the tedious process of actually waking up.

-

_The view from Race’s bedroom window- trees, a parking lot, a lamppost. Caption: first day is a go!_

-

Breakfast brings them two completely okay waffles and eggs that kind of taste like water more than they do eggs. Race scans the serving stations for the famed hash browns- known throughout the camp as lard balls- but they seem to have disappeared for the time being.

He slides into place next to Charlie, who is already halfway through his meal. A few tables over, his eyes land on Spot, who is wearing an almost fluorescent orange Hawaiian-print shirt.

“Christ,” says Jack, following his gaze. “Are you sure that’s the kid you want?”

“I will slap you in the face with a hand full of scrambled eggs,” threatens Race gravely.

Jack lifts an eyebrow at Charlie, who makes a face as if to say, _it could happen._

Juniper takes her place at the microphone and breathes in it loud enough to startle the cafeteria. 

At the sudden silence she grins. “Good morning! I hope everyone had a good sleep last night.”

There are a couple of boos from across the cafeteria. Jack whoops, which Race knows is a lie because Jack was moving around _all night long,_ and Charlie makes a so-so hand and says in a perfectly level voice, “It was all right.”

“Excellent,” says Juniper. “Glad to know our beds treat you right. Anyway, on to the schedule of the morning- I’m sure most of you know by now, but for those who don’t, your warm-ups every day are going to be in the same rooms you auditioned in.”

“Fuck!” Race blurts before he can stop himself. Talon gives him a look from across the room. As some other instruments are getting room assignments, he’s mourning the loss of his legs in the weeks to come- because, as luck would have it, the room he auditioned in isn’t even in the same _building._

Jack pauses after the trombones have been assigned to shift Race a grin that means, _I’m so close to the stage I barely have to walk. Sucker._

Race glares at him: _You’re a piece of shit, Kelly._

_I know._ And then it’s time to finish up and go to warm-ups, and Race doesn’t get time to punch Jack in the arm because if he wants to be on time then he’s going to have to run.

Every single day.

Christ.

-

_chat with russetromeo_

_higginzzz: i can’t believe this shit_

_higginzzz: im gonna have actual muscles at the end of this, i can’t handle_

_russetromeo: at least you have long legs, dingus_

_russetromeo: wait for me!_

-

They end up moving their warm-up room even _further_ away from the rehearsal stage, to a place that the instructor doesn’t even have a key to. Race and Romeo sit on their cases, content to wait in silence, but the instructor seems intent to talk about her life experiences as they wait for security.

Romeo is a year behind Race and has achieved his desired placement of second horn, which means he and Race can make faces at each other all rehearsal with minimal effort. Also in their section is one of the girls in Race’s icebreaker group- the one who also happened to write meme on her friend’s sheet- and another guy that he doesn’t recognize. He introduces himself as Nick, which, okay. Fair enough. Race can’t expect everyone in his section to have a memorable name.

They strike up an amicable friendship, though, that starts with the girl- Anna- spreading her legs across the hallway and saying, “If this hallway was a little bit narrower, I could be Spiderman.”

It feels like it’s going to be a good two weeks. The security man comes to unlock the door, and they file into the suffocatingly heated room like it’s the most wonderful place on Earth.

 

At the water fountain before rehearsal, Charlie picks his way through the small crowd of dehydrated teenagers and leans on the wall next to Race. “We did yoga this morning,” he says, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Chair yoga is surprisingly helpful on the back, did you know that?”

“Makes sense,” Race says. “I feel like flute-ing can’t be fantastic for your back.”

“You must be thinking of it wrong, then, _flute expert,_ ” Charlie says, and immediately turns to walk away. Race stares at him for long enough that his water bottle starts to overflow and spill all over his hand.

 

The first rehearsal is, naturally, a mess.

Jack is missing half of his parts, because bass trombones essentially don’t exist, and half of the clarinets are in the wrong place and no one can figure out where their lucky bassoon should go because everybody forgot that there was a bassoon in the band.

Race’s section has figured themselves out quite easily so they just sit, scanning their music and cursing every piece that goes above a high G. It’s all manageable, with a little effort- or a lot, depending on the piece- so at the end of the mess they’ve all resorted to making fart noises and pretending the sound came from the trumpets.

Speaking of trumpets: Race turns around and gets an eyeful of garish Hawaiian print and thinks, _oh, no, he’ll be staring at the back of my head for two weeks._

_Oh, no, he’ll be playing right into my ear for two weeks._

It turns out that Spot is the lead trumpet, which is partly cool because it means that Spot himself is even better than Race could have hoped and partly uncool because it means that Race can’t even admire the skinny jeans without being painfully obvious.

Spot catches his eye, lifts his trumpet to his face, and makes a fart noise.

The band director begins to clap and Race whips back around, praying that Spot won’t see the way the tips of his ears turn tomato-red.

 

“Good morning,” the director says jovially. Race thinks that phrase has been said to him more today than it has in the past two months. “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Medda, and I am more than excited to be leading you guys to greatness through these next couple of weeks.”

Jack lets out another big whoop from the very back row and Medda zeroes in on him with a large smile. “I see a lot of familiar faces in the crowd,” she continues, giving Jack a wink, “but a lot of new ones as well. Some of you look downright terrified. Let me tell you something, though: in these next few weeks, this band will become like a giant piece of your own family, whether you want it to or not. This is a place where friends are made and bonds are strengthened. Now, I know that for a lot of you, this is a whole new experience, and for some of you this is all you’ve been dreaming about for months. What I want you all to do is challenge the feeling inside of you, whether it’s anticipation or nerves, and I want you to embrace it completely. It’s your job to make me look good, remember?” A filtered laugh makes its way across the band. “We’ll start with a simple concert B flat, just to see where we fall on balance, and then we’ll get into some music.”

One of the alto saxophones says, “Good speech, Medda,” and then honks rather obnoxiously. Medda raises her hands into position. Under the stage lights, she seems to sparkle.

Race plays a few test notes, finding his pitch, and the feeling of _this is going to be wonderful_ returns in full force.

 

As it turns out, the band isn’t too bad. It’s the product of a group of teenagers so committed to music they’re willing to spend thirteen days- and a total of over 50 hours- doing exactly that. Already, the music sounds like it’s being put together on an atomic level, like each and every player knows what they want and how to get there. It’s just a matter of taking all of those separate minds and putting them into one song.

Jack, Race, and Charlie meet backstage after the rehearsal is over. Race fishes through his backpack for a tennis ball- _a fantastic tool for sore muscles, Charlie, no joke_ \- and rubs it against his collar bones as they walk.

“Have we done all our campus exploration yet?” asks Charlie. They’re making a direct path for the campus Forum, which has a set of tables and booths to relax at. The break after the first rehearsal is, and has always been, reserved for going over music and figuring out just how much rest they’ll need. Race already has dibs on something frozen, as well as one of the orange freezies in Romeo’s apartment fridge.

Jack hums as he thinks. “Most of it, yeah. Out of all the places we’re legally allowed to be, we’ve covered all the instrument areas-”

“Except Trumpetland,” Charlie interrupts, a glint in his eye.

Race closes his eyes and tries very hard not to think about the lead trumpet, who had to have heard all his mispitched notes and every angry _blart_ that came out of his conveniently pointed bell. “Don’t even. I’ll be going down there later today anyway.”

“Oh! Is Spot in your small group?” Charlie looks positively gleeful.

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Boo,” Jack says. He blows out in a loose buzz. “Boring.”

“You’re not allowed to say that. You’re in an ensemble with two of my horns _and_ a trumpet. Who is also not Spot. I’m pretty sure you’re going to have the time of your life.”

Jack shrugs. “That’s why I said _boring._ Think what you want about your own afternoons, but mine are going to be parties.”

Charlie has gotten out his music already and it’s now that Race spots the thirty-second notes that adorn the pages and starts screaming.

-

_Wild zooming in and out on a particularly challenging-looking run on Charlie’s music. “WHAT. THE FUCK. IS THIS.”_

-

_“Comparison.” The video scans along an entire measure of half and whole notes, each at a relatively easy pitch._

-

_“Look at this man. Flute god, right here. The fucking best of us.”_

_The view swings to Jack, who looks petulant._

_“And then there’s this guy, who just shows up and plays low notes.”_

_Jack lunges for the camera._

-

Anna walks by a few minutes later with one of Jack’s section mates- the taller friend of the group pair. She waves at Race, and by extension, the rest of the crew. As they walk away, the friend says something and Anna laughs so hard it echoes.

“Man, that’s gotta be us,” Race says, watching after them. “We need to fight them. Who’s gonna have more fun at camp.”

Jack nods seriously. “They’re competition. They’ve already started making faces at each other.”

“It’s been one rehearsal!” screeches Race. “We need to step up our game.”

“Agreed,” Charlie says absently, now scratching at his music with a dull pencil, crossing out old photocopied notes and writing in new ones. “I’ll be sure to make direct eye contact with both of you from the very centre of the front row, where I can literally only see four people without turning too much and where I am directly under Medda.”

“See?” Jack says. “This is why principle flute is overrated.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re third for literally everything.”

Jack makes a _pfft_ noise and waves his hand. “It’s the only part low enough for my sweet, sweet bass trombone.”

 

With lunchtime comes rice and steamed vegetables, Juniper not-too-casually slipping mention of her engagement into every single announcement she makes, and the introduction of the group cheers. Each icebreaker group- with a name that had been decided at the time of icebreakers- must perform a cheer of some sort that matches the theme presented on the bulletin board.

Today’s theme is _2000s Pop._ Race is pretty sure all the themes are chosen by Kiwi, who looks aglow with inspiration as she turns to her group and begins to explain an idea.

Jack stands next to where Charlie is sat on a table. Plato looks rather devious.

“Listen,” she says quietly. “We’re the _Uncoordinated Silence,_ right? Does everyone know the lyrics to _I Want it That Way?_ ”

Most of the group responds with affirmative noises. One person pulls up the lyrics on their phone and hands it to another.

“Right. So.” Plato rubs her hands together. “We’re going to sing it. But not well. Anywhere where there’s supposed to be a rest, sing something. You think you should be singing something? Don’t! We’re made of uncoordinated silence. Let’s show ‘em what that means.”

Juniper calls the cafeteria to order with another loud breath into the microphone, and then says, “Who’s ready? Show me your best jazz hands.”

Romeo’s group, _The Godfathers,_ are chosen first after Romeo nearly trips over a chair in his jazz-hand enthusiasm. They perform an almost flawless execution of the chorus of _Toxic,_ complete with background vocals and vocalized instruments. It gets the entire cafeteria buzzed, just in time for a different group to break down laughing in the middle of their own cheer.

Race thinks their cheer went off perfectly. Perfectly, in this case, would mean _intentionally disastrous,_ as there’s a lot of confusion and a lot of giggling and a semi-audible rendition of Backstreet Boys, and somewhere along the line Anna decides to hop up on a chair behind them and start doing jazz hands at whoever she can. Jack has one arm slung around Race’s shoulders and the other around Charlie’s and he’s swaying them back and forth to the highly uncoordinated tune.

Juniper loves it. Her trademark laugh fills the cafeteria, bright and somewhat dolphin-like. She’s the one judging the cheers, and Race feels like they’ve got this one in the bag.

“Right,” she says, after all the cheers are finished. “That was one of the best first rounds of cheers I’ve ever seen.” The cafeteria erupts with victorious noise. “So, the group who wins bragging rights and a victory lap around the cafeteria is… _The Godfathers!_ I’m sorry, I just can’t resist such jazz-handed enthusiasm.” She waves at Romeo, who almost trips over another chair.

“Fuck,” says Jack. It goes mostly unheard.

Plato turns to them, still smiling widely. “Good effort, team! Tomorrow’s theme is _The Alphabet._ We can get this one, for sure.”

Everything seems better when Plato is happy, so when Romeo approaches during his team’s victory lap, Race puts up his hand and lets the prevailing horn high-five it.

-

_chat with JACK!_

_higginzzz: I’m justifiably terrified_

_higginzzz: I know n o b o d y_

_JACK!: relax man you’ll be fine_

_JACK!: just. let that horn do its biz_

_JACK!: she knows what she’s doing_

_higginzzz: bless_

_higginzzz: still. I’ve heard that Martin is intense as fuck_

_JACK!: gtg but man embrace that. best last year ever, right???_

_higginzzz: I hate how right u are_

-

Aside from the large band rehearsals, each camper is placed in a three- to six-piece ensemble led by a faculty member. This is to give the campers a better experience with listening, leading, and a more intimate practice time with professionals.

Race understands this on a logical level. He also knows that if the goddamn tubas don’t step up their game, it’s going to be a lot more intense than it already is.

And it’s already tense.

Martin, their faculty leader, began with a speech about musicianship, then led them into an ear training exercise and a warm-up that theoretically shouldn’t have been difficult but somehow managed to sound like it was.

No fault to Martin, of course- Race thinks he’s a brilliant man, just the kind of person who should be leading their group- but god, he may slowly go crazy.

 

At their next break, the three of them walk by the main security desk on their way to the campus Starbucks. Race waves at the security man. The security man waves back.

 

As it turns out, band kids are really good at singing. This tends to come as a shock for Race every single year, despite knowing exactly what comes next from all the years he’s spent at camp. It’s something to do with school band and the way no one there seems to have any sense of pitch. Ultimately, it’s refreshing.

It’s less refreshing when they’re trying to learn the lyrics and four-part harmonies of the first African piece the choir director has decided on. Race trips over most of his words for most of the hour.

Jack, naturally, is amazing, because Jack is amazing at everything. It’s a little bit frustrating, really. Jack, also, has been singing for longer than he’s been playing, so it’s understandable.

“Teach me your ways,” Race whispers to him as the director is talking to the sopranos. “I don’t understand how you’re so good at this.”

“Practice,” says Jack, in the tone of voice that somehow imitates every single band teacher they’ve ever had all at once. “You’ll never get better if you don’t practice.”

Race resists the urge to push him over. They’re already sitting on the floor, so it wouldn’t be much of a problem, but the choir director has eagle eyes and he’s got no doubt she would call them out on it.

Besides, he’s got another problem, and said problem sits just an arm’s reach away in an orange shirt and skinny jeans and—

“Those socks,” Race points out to Jack, “have rubber ducks on them. I want them.”

“As if he couldn’t get any better,” Jack says.

Spot goes to scratch his ankle and pulls up his jeans. It gives a fabulous view of rubber-duck-socks and means tighter jeans, and Race feels his face heat up again.

Charlie, who is sitting on the other side of Jack, leans over and whispers, “I think he’s onto you.”

 

When they walk into the courtyard for afternoon recreation, there’s a giant rainbow parachute spread out on the ground.

“ _Fuck me up,_ ” Jack emphasizes. “These are my _childhood._ ”

Everyone else seems to have had the same idea, because it’s a mad rush to grab a piece of the parachute between thumbs and fists. It’s almost too small for everyone, but it’s band camp, which means that friendships are made solely through people getting accidentally too close to each other.

Tiki and Talon stand on separate park benches. They’ve each got a pile of dodgeballs cradled in their arms, while Tiki has also stuffed one under his shirt and Talon is holding onto one with his head as one would a phone. After explaining the first game- essentially, _get the balls off the parachute_ \- they attempt to throw all of the dodgeballs onto the open parachute at once. It doesn’t work.

“Wait,” says one of the trumpets in the intermediate band, before they begin their fourth attempt to catapult the dodgeballs into the air. “On the count of three, everybody throw the parachute down.”

He’s met with a chorus of _why_ and _what good will that do us_ but he says, “Just trust me. It’ll make the middle go up. Not to make innuendos, but-”

Talon yells at them to begin before the innuendo can be made. The trumpet kid counts off.

True to his word, the balls go flying.

-

_“It’s a ballcano, Jack. A volcano of dodgeballs. Get it?”_

_“I will punch you in the mouth.”_

-

Dinner rolls around and it’s some sort of pasta dish with cream sauce. Jack takes a Jell-O cup from the dessert tray and eats all the whipped cream off the top before even starting on his pasta. Some of it ends up on his nose.

“This is fabulously mediocre,” muses Charlie, poking at his linguine with his fork. “I’m not quite sure what bird this meat belongs to, but it’s pretty good. All things considered.”

Race, who has stocked up on potato salad and has not even touched his pasta yet, let alone looked at it, says, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. It’s obviously pork.”

Jack snorts.

“By the way.” Race jabs his fork in the direction of Jack’s Jell-O, which is a shade of pale yellow. “What flavor is that?”

Jack takes a nibble of one of the cubes.

“Well?”

Jack, looking ponderous, shoves a giant forkful of Jell-O into his mouth. “It’s like lemon, but barely. Questionably lemon.”

“Questionably lemon,” says Charlie. “Sounds like a band name.”

“Or a book series!”

“Or a paint colour,” Jack adds. He eats the rest of the Jell-O by tipping the cup into his mouth. 

“That’s what you should paint your bedroom next, Crutch. Questionably lemon yellow.”

Charlie makes a face. “My deep yellow is just fine, thank you very much.”

-

_A picture of Jack, whipped cream spot on his nose, sticking his tongue out at the camera. Next to him, just a little blurry, Charlie is frozen in a picture of wait no don’t take it yet I’m not ready, forever immortalized with his mouth open and eyes half-closed._

_Caption: questionably lemon and his sidekick, sneeze-mouth, are ready to save your day_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohh boy. I'm afraid of what's coming next.
> 
> Hope you liked the new chapter! xx


	3. Spinach, the Food of the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Three Amigos each get their moment to shine. Race is less enthused about his.

They’re standing in a line framing the edge of the black box theater when Jack leans to Race and says, “Which one do you think is the clone?”

He’s referring to Tiki and Talon. Neither of them are currently in the room, so Race blinks at him for a few seconds and then says, “Jack, I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Tiki,” Charlie says. He always seems attuned to Jack’s thoughts, like he’s been following them inside Jack’s head before Jack dips out into reality. “He’s smaller, and Talon’s the weird one, so it makes sense that he’d get just a fraction less of the dominant genes.”

The room they’re in is overflowing with noise- as it usually does when the entire camp is stuffed into it- but Charlie’s actual response to the completely irrelevant question is somehow clear as day. Jack gives him one of his widest grins. “I didn’t expect anyone to actually think about it.”

“You asked me last year,” Charlie says. “Well, it was like, three months ago. You were drunk. It gave me time to think.”

“I don’t _get drunk,_ ” Jack says.

“I _perform,_ ” Race imitates, cutting off whatever Jack was about to say after that. Jack punches him lightly in the shoulder.

Suddenly, abruptly, the lights go out.

The room erupts in whispers. Faintly, so faintly it’s almost inaudible, the theme of _Mission: Impossible_ begins to rise from the speakers.

“ _Bless_ afternoon rec,” whispers Charlie.

Slowly, the lights in the room begin to rise again. The floor in the middle has been set about with blocks, folded gym mats, and other assorted large pieces. On one crate in the corner, opposite where Race is standing, stands Scratch, one of the male counselors, triumphantly holding a rubber duck. He lets out a reasonably good impression of a typical evil laugh.

Nebula’s voice sounds in the darkness. “The man you see before you,” she declares, pitching her voice low, “the evil criminal mastermind Scratch, has taken captive one of our most beloved operatives: Ricky the Duck. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to rescue Ricky the Duck without being discovered by Scratch.”

Scratch raises his left hand, holding a flashlight, and points it at one of the blocks set on the floor in front of him. “ _BANG!_ ” he yells, turning the flashlight on briefly.

“If Scratch shoots you, you must go back to the beginning of the course and try again. Each team will have a minute to attempt their rescue. You must bring Ricky back to the beginning to rescue him- if you are shot on the way back, you must drop him where you stand and allow the team to continue on. No throwing.” Nebula somehow manages to shoot her voice down even lower and continues, “Team One is up first. Are you ready, Team One?”

Team One makes a general sound of uneasy agreement.

“You can move when the music begins.”

The _Mission: Impossible_ theme fades back into existence. Team One begins their adventure.

For a few seconds, it’s nearly pitch-black in the room. All Race can hear is the sound of shuffling and footsteps. Scratch catches one person with his flashlight.

Alongside the music, Nebula is playing with the lights, flicking up random red- or blue-coloured lights for fractions of a second, highlighting different campers mid-dash and simply adding to the mood. Scratch shines his light on another kid who is desperately close to reaching Ricky the Duck, who is sitting on the crate at Scratch’s feet.

The minute seems over almost too quickly. Team One is unsuccessful.

Race, Jack, Charlie, and the rest of their group are Team Four out of six. The excitement of the game is growing, and by the time they’re next to go, Jack is vibrating with it.

Team Three is well into their endeavour, and Charlie leans over and whispers, “Does anyone have any tissues?”

Jack fishes one out of his pocket. “Brilliant,” Charlie says, then proceeds to sit on one of the boxes next to Nebula and start- something. It’s dark, and the random sequences of lighting flashes don’t give Race much to go on, especially when Charlie is leaning over himself the way he is.

When he finishes, he approaches again with a wide grin. “We’re gonna win this,” he says quietly. Behind them, evidently hearing this, Nebula gives her own encouraging “You will!” and then it’s their turn.

“Ready, Team Four?” Nebula asks.

“Ready,” Charlie says.

The music starts.

Race and Jack dive forward and end up squished behind a gym mat next to Anna and two others. Scratch flash-bangs a few more campers who evidently decided to charge ahead. In the darkness following, Jack scrambles forward and forward again, crumpling himself into a ball behind one of the smallest blocks on the course.

Race curses his gangly frame and rolls to the slightly taller box a few feet away. They wait for the next lighting flash to figure out what the hell they’re doing.

It’s probably around the halfway point now. One of the lights flashes, and in that period they see two things:

One, Charlie, standing comfortably in the crowd right next to Scratch’s crate, so close he could take Ricky the Duck just by reaching out. Two, Scratch, poised and in position, looking about ready to turn around and catch Charlie the moment he steps out of the shadows.

Jack and Charlie’s telepathic connection must work both ways, because Jack takes the next moment to unfold himself and shoot out from the safety of the block, off to the right and very much not in the direction that Charlie is coming from.

“ _BANG!_ ” shouts Scratch. The light shines on Jack. As far as anybody else knows, that’s the closest Team Four has gotten to rescuing Ricky the Duck.

The light shines again. Ricky the Duck is nowhere to be seen.

For good measure, Race flings himself towards the right, the opposite of where Charlie should be. Scratch doesn’t catch him yet, but he does make a lot of noise without meaning to, so he’s sure Scratch is alert and listening for his side of the room.

It’s dark again. Race sticks his middle finger in the air just above the safety of the box just briefly because no one can see it. It’s not so much a _fuck you_ as it is a victory over Evil Criminal Mastermind Scratch and Nebula’s Countdown Voice of Doom.

The music stops and the lights turn on and there is Charlie, glorious and victorious, holding Ricky the Duck in the air with one hand like a trophy he’s just won. The crutch on that arm dangles in the air, and Race notices that at the bottom, the rubber pads have been wrapped in tissue.

And that’s Charlie in a nutshell: silent, deadly, and overwhelmingly capable. The room applauds for Team Four and their victory, and then it’s time for Team Five’s turn, and Jack nearly picks up Charlie in his excitement to hug his best friend.

“That was,” says Charlie, smiling so large his cheeks _have_ to be hurting, “the best thing I’ve ever done. And all I did was steal a rubber duck.”

“ _Badass,_ ” Jack says. “Completely and utterly badass.”

-

_A photo of Charlie, taken in an almost completely dark room with the flash on. He shows the camera a peace sign. Caption: move aside ethan hunt, there’s a new action hero in town._

-

They break for dinner a little bit earlier than usual, so they sit against the wall in the cafeteria line and play a few rounds of elementary school chopsticks. Jack and Charlie spend most of the time sharing a private joke, one that Race isn’t yet privy to- though the glances and grins seem to suggest that he should be, or he will be soon enough.

It proves true the moment the dinner line starts to move, because there’s a tap on Race’s shoulder and he spins around to see the receding figure of Spot, who has been standing next to him the _entire time_ and has probably heard all of his masterful attempts at chopstick puns.

Jack helps Charlie to his feet and they laugh at Race until someone behind them says, “Man, you guys are cool and all, but please hurry up because I’m _starved._ ”

 

As it turns out, the salad bar in front of the serving stations is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, of course, because without potato salad Race would definitely be suffering, but a curse because whenever someone begins to stock up on salad, the line gets held up.

Race reaches up and grabs a tray for Jack. He keeps an eye on Spot, who is loading up a plate with spinach- _jesus christ, that’s a lot of spinach_ \- and is about to grab a plate for his own beloved potato salad when a spinach leaf falls directly onto his tray.

Spot seems not to notice. He’s moved onto the other salad fixings, completely unaware of his surroundings, so Race takes the opportunity to quickly take the leaf and replace it on Spot’s plate before anything else happens.

Except Spot sees his hand as it exits the vicinity of his plate, and he stares.

Race stares back. “Ah, fuck. Sorry. Listen, the leaf, it just fell off- and I didn’t want to just leaf it- _leave it,_ fuck, sorry- I just- yeah. Putting it back.” His hand hovers over the plate and he gives it a few air-pats, just to solidify the fact that he was making things better, not messing them up. “Sorry.”

There’s a tense silence. Spot seems to be processing it all. Then he looks Race straight in the eye, and says with full conviction, “No. _Thank you._ ”

He turns around and heads toward the dietary restriction station, which means that Race can’t even follow him when the _what the fuck_ begins to form on his lips. His face flames up again and he turns resolutely back to the bar, content with gathering a plateful of potato salad and forgetting that any of that happened.

Jack, who has witnessed the whole thing in complete detail, slams his hand down on the table next to him and starts laughing so hard Race is sure he’s about to piss himself. “Holy _fuck,_ ” he gasps. “I can’t believe that I witnessed that with my own two eyes.”

“I’d appreciate it if you never mention it again,” Race hisses. It’s a lost cause.

 

Jack slams his tray down next to Charlie and Romeo and says, “Guess what just happened.”  
Race should have expected this- it’s Jack, after all, and who is Jack without a best friend to make fun of at every possible moment? Still, he places his tray down and scratches at his ears in an effort to quell the redness and waits for the sweet release of death.

Jack tells most of the story, although Race does protest when Jack says he was _too lovestruck to talk_ \- he was just caught off-guard, thank you very much- and when he hits the end, Race thumps his head down onto the table between them.

“My life is over,” he mourns. “I can’t believe that happened.”

Charlie looks somehow even more gleeful than Jack. “You know what this means, Race.”

Even Romeo is grinning at Race like this is the best news he’s ever received. Race looks between his three friends as something akin to dread begins to grow in his stomach. “Shit, guys, please don’t hold this against me-”

“Forever,” Jack finishes. “Too late, buddy.”

They eat their meal with little more to say about the topic, although Jack does look at Race with a gleam in his eyes the moment Race apologizes for elbowing him. “Don’t you dare,” Race warns, but it’s too late. Jack has already thanked him.

Race digs the tennis ball out of his backpack. He’s got an excess of nervous energy, still dealing with the fact that life is cruel and will probably never give him a date with a spinach-loving lead trumpet player.

“Toss it,” Romeo says, holding his hands up. “My shoulders are dying.”

“It’s been two days!” Charlie says. “God. _Horn players._ ”

Race tosses the tennis ball to Romeo, who immediately begins rubbing them on his shoulders with a loud, content sigh. “Man, that is the best feeling in the world.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Race says to Charlie. “It really is brilliant.”

“Sure, whatever, humor yourselves.”

Romeo throws the tennis ball back at Race, who runs it along the table a few times before returning it. It’s a small toss, just enough to get it back across the short cafeteria table, but Romeo fumbles it over his shoulder and the tennis ball goes flying into the depths of the cafeteria.

It rolls until it hits the ankle of a girl wearing bright orange leggings. She picks it up, examines it for a moment, and then scans the cafeteria. Race raises his hand, feeling the shame spread to his ears once again.

The girl throws the ball back with significantly better aim than Race has. They nod at each other. Race wishes again that he could disappear.

“What a night you’re having,” Jack observes.

Race’s head hits the table and he thinks he might just start to giggle uncontrollably and probably start crying as well. It’s a complicated emotion.

-

_“Race, look at me.”_

_“Fuck off. I know you’ve got my phone.”_

_“Look at me.”_

_Race lifts his head off the table and gives the camera his best death glare. Jack zooms in on his face and says, “Spinach Saviour.”_

_“You’re the fuckin’ devil, Jack. The fuckin’ devil.”_

-

They’ve just finished their second mass band rehearsal when Jack comes up to him and says, “I forgot to tell you, but we can add one to the toe shoes count.”

“Aw, hell,” Race says. “My phone’s already in my bag. Do you have a pen?”

One of their existing camp traditions is the Tallies, a document on Race’s phone that holds counts of random things around camp: how many times they’re served lard balls, for example, or how many times Jack’s section leader drops his pencil. The Toe Shoe tally is exactly that: one of the faculty members owns a pair, and Jack keeps a daily count of when he’s wearing them.

“No pen,” Jack says. “Hey, Crutch!”

Charlie sidles up to them, flute still in hand. “What’s up?”

“Pen. You got one?”

A sigh escapes Charlie’s mouth. “Look on the table, guys.”

They’re sitting next to the backstage management table, which also happens to have a massive penholder sitting on top of it. Charlie throws his hand into the air, careful not to drop his flute, and walks back away, muttering about incompetent best friends.

The Toe Shoes count moves to a grand total of one.

-

_In the audience of the theater; Race is holding the camera in a selfie featuring Jack making a face, Charlie throwing a peace sign, and Romeo in the background flipping off the camera._

-

“Holy shit, is that Spot?”

Jack points at Race’s phone as he’s about to add the newest picture to his story. Race pulls it closer to his face to stare deeply into the background, near where Jack’s finger is. “Oh, oh my God.”

Sure enough, Spot is there, a row behind them and obviously staring at the camera, sticking his tongue out with bright eyes.

-

_Caption: s.m.g.s. (save my gay soul)_

-

After that night’s faculty concert, they’re all sent back to the black box, which has somehow transitioned to an atmosphere even more dark and foreboding than it had been in the afternoon. It looks like the counselors have extensively utilized the fog machine- and Race can see it in his head, Kiwi and Stone dancing around with a small cloud-spitting box- and one of them stands ominously in the centre of the room, wearing a Halloween-store Grim Reaper costume that completely hides their face.

“Ten cents says it’s Plato,” Jack whispers. They’ve all noticed the figure at the exact same time- somewhat obviously- and for some reason it’s the best thing they’ve done as a three-person team all day.

A voice sounds from the speakers: “Groups of eight, campers. Groups of eight.”

Race immediately searches for the outline of Spot in the haze of the room. He’s already part of a group of eight, and Race feels a pang somewhere in his stomach, even though he’s sure he couldn’t muster up the courage to invite Spot over if he tried. It would be nice to have the option, he decides.

They end up sitting with the bassoonist, one of Charlie’s fellow flutes, and three girls from the intermediate band that Race doesn’t know the names of. There doesn’t seem to be a need to introduce themselves. One thing that camp is good for is the creation of hour-long friendships, in which these people may never cross paths again, but for this hour of rec time there’s nothing between them.

The intermediate girls seem sweet and the bassoonist continues to crack the wittiest jokes Race has ever heard under her breath. Despite the lack of Spot, it’s a group that could prevail over the world.

“Welcome,” says the unidentified speaker-voice, “to a night of horror, deception, and all-around evilness.” The fog machine, which has made its way to the catwalk, spits a cloud of fog down upon the circles of campers on the floor. “If one person from each group could come and grab a stack of cards, that would be great, thanks.”

The bassoonist, a small Asian girl named Nori, leaps up to get the cards before the group can begin their _who’s gonna get them_ patented awkward eye contact. She returns with the rubber band around her wrist, already shuffling through them.

“Right,” she says. “Thought I’d spare us all that moment of indecision.”

Race nods his thanks as the speaker-voice says, “How this game works is simple. You will each have a card face-down in front of you. Only you know what is on that card. The card tells you what role you must be playing in the coming night.”

Nori piles all the cards into the middle of their circle. “Get at ‘em, kids.”

Race pulls a card out from the edge of the pile. _Witness._ He kicks off his shoes, pulls his legs into a crossed position, and places the card down in front of him.

On his right, Jack is growing a sneaky smile. It’s a smile Race knows from years of friendship to mean that he’s about to be a little shit. He digs an elbow into Jack’s side and whispers, “If you fuck me over I will end you.”

“Depends on who you are,” Jack responds. He flashes Race a shark-like smile.

“Okie dokie, you funky little campers,” the speaker-voice says, and all at once everybody in the room identifies it as Freddi, that being his catchphrase. “I want all of you to shut your eyes. We’ll go over the identities of each of you as the game progresses.”

Race screws his eyes shut tight. Jack shifts beside him, likely in preparation of whatever devious act he’s about to commit. There’s some dark music in the background, orchestral and somewhat epic.

“Welcome to Bandville,” says Freddi. “It’s full of small villages of wonderful people so willing to help and support one another – but occasionally, on nights like tonight, a deep evil comes to Bandville. Now, I want everyone whose cards said _Murderer_ to open their eyes.”

There’s a pair of footsteps wandering around the floor. Race sneaks a small glance up to see Tiki, wearing a deep indigo cloak and a domino mask, sweeping the area, looking less like a dangerous villager and more like a low-rate superhero.

“I also want everyone who is the _Witness_ to open their eyes. But before you do, I’d advise you to be careful. If the murderer knows who you are, you may be in danger.”

Race attempts to open his eyes as covertly as possible. He relaxes his face first, stretching one side of his mouth and then the other, and then slowly and carefully cracks open an eye.

Scanning the half-circle of people opposite him brings no results. All of them have their eyes closed, all innocently staring at the darkness behind their eyelids and probably intrigued as to what may be happening. None of them are the murderer.

Under the guise of cracking his neck, Race cants his head to the side and checks Charlie, who is grinning. His right eye, the only one Race can see, is still firmly closed. He turns his neck to the other side and makes direct eye contact with Jack.

Jack’s smile grows larger. _Gotcha,_ he mouths.

 _I fucking knew it,_ Race mouths back.

“Close your eyes,” Freddi says. Jack winks at him and paints an expression of total serenity back onto his face.

The game progresses, with Freddi calling out each player- the Bartender, for example, who is able to look at a card of a group member and know their role, or the Hypnotist, who switches a pair of cards without looking at them- and then it’s time to deliberate.

“As the darkness fades into dawn, and all the villagers awaken, the sun begins to shed light on a deep horror committed within our midst! The villager shoemakers, the good Mister Smith and his wife, have been found dead inside their homes!” All the counselors in the room perform a very synchronous dramatic gasp. “Your job is to find out, through careful deliberation, who could have been the perpetrator of this treacherous act. Remember, it could be anyone! Good luck, villagers.”

The room breaks out into conversation. No one in Race’s group moves.

“So,” says Nori, “I’ve got no fucking idea who’s who.”

“Same,” one of the other girls says. “My card said _villager._ So I literally did nothing.”

Race stares resolutely ahead. He can feel Jack watching him and in the moment it feels like he’s being ripped open.

Charlie bites the bullet first and says, “Spencer’s the hypnotist.”

Spencer, the other flute, opens his eyes wide behind his glasses and looks ready to rebuke it before conceding. “Fine. I switched yours-” he points at one of the intermediate band girls, and then at Nori- “and yours.”

Nori throws her hands in the air. “Hell if I know. I was the drunkard, I was allowed to expose someone if I wanted to. I only figured that out after my turn was up, though.”

“Suspicious,” Jack muses.

Race licks his lips, braces himself, and says in a rush of air, “Jack’s the murderer.”

Jack, Charlie, and most of the rest of the group all whip around to stare at him. He raises his hand weakly. “Witness.”

“That’s a straight-up lie and you know it,” Jack says. He addresses the group. “He’s only saying that ‘cause he caught me witnessing his murder.”

Race reaches out in a stretch, leans to his right, and flicks Jack on the back of his neck.

“Interesting,” Nori says. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Jack’s an asshole,” Race grumbles. “And the one who actually killed The Smiths.”

The third girl raises her hand slightly and says, “This makes nothing better, but I was the crime expert, and according to my very special information that I’ve discovered by analyzing the bodies, only Jack, Race, and Andrea could have done it.”

“I didn’t,” says the girl on her left automatically. Andrea. “I’ve got Mayor. My vote counts twice.”

Jack resumes his stare at Race, who stares back and lifts an eyebrow.

“God, this is a mess,” Nori says. A mechanical claw-hand lands on her shoulder and she jumps, nearly losing her balance. Kiwi is standing over her, wearing a typical old-fashioned bartender outfit and wielding the claw-hand like it’s her last defense against the world.

Freddi quiets the room. “On the count of three, each one of you is going to point to the person you believe is the murderer.”

Charlie lets out a long-suffering sigh. The rest of the group shifts in anticipation, pondering the facts as Freddi begins his countdown. On _three,_ Race points at Jack and Jack points at Race and Charlie points in their general direction, still unsure.

They count up the votes in their head. Jack’s the fastest, though, and throws his hands up in a victory position. “ _Checkmate!_ ”

“Wow, thanks,” Race says. Most of the hands are pointed in his direction.

Jack gives him another somewhat unsettling grin and says, “Only the best for our favourite French horn.”

“Dude, you play the horn?” Andrea says excitedly. “So does my sister! And she’s _super_ good at it. Maybe you know her- Emily Archer, nineteen, probably the most badass person in the world?”

Race does, in fact, know Emily Archer, Official Badass. He and Andrea share stories on the walk back to the dorms until they have to split.

“Night successful,” Jack says. “Doubly so for me.”

“I hope Joseph the Third eats your corpse.”

-

_Jack is trying to balance a pile of Oreos on the kitchen table._

_“Hey, Jack. Jack. Do you hear that?”_

_Jack looks up. Listens. “The car?”_

_“No.” Race’s hand enters the view of the camera and knocks down the Oreos. “That’s the sound of betrayal.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ashamed to admit that that's almost exactly how the spinach incident went
> 
> thanks for reading! tell me how it's going so far!


	4. The Totally Real Haunting of Apartment 8B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring accessible recreation games, Joseph the Third, and a new petition.

“Seriously, though, our basement is definitely haunted.”

Jack tears off a piece of his chicken strip and drops it into the sizeable pile of plum sauce he’s amassed on his plate. “Did you hear Joseph Three’s infernal screeching at ass o’clock in the morning?”

“No,” Charlie gripes, “but I did hear every single time you got up to pee last night. What did you do, drown yourself before going to bed?”

Race sticks a finger in Jack’s plum sauce and licks it, swatting Jack’s hand away. “Not gonna lie, I think that’s exactly what happened.”

“I was thirsty!” Jack protests. “Besides, I’m not the only one.” He stares pointedly at Race.

Race takes a deep breath. “The universe has forsaken me, and-”

“You’ll never be able to talk to trumpet kid again, we know, you spent most of last night smothering your problems in Oreos that you stole from Jack.” Charlie gives Race a flat look. “We were there.”

“Sorry,” says Race, not feeling too sorry at all.

Charlie opens his mouth but Jack interrupts him, waving a hand. “’S fine. Listen, about this ghost-”

“I can’t sleep,” Charlie says earnestly. “And it’s not just your guys’ fault either. You two need to shut up after midnight. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s gonna come out of that door and I’m the _only one on the ground floor_. Is it irrational? Probably.” He shoves a chicken strip into his mouth with a huff. “Am I still losing sleep? Yes.”

“Fine,” Jack says. “Tonight. Ghost hunting, ten fifteen. Our basement. It’s a date.”

“You know who I would _love_ to go on a date with,” Race begins.

He doesn’t get to finish his thought. Both Jack and Charlie slam down their chicken strips simultaneously and say, “Trumpet kid. We _know._ ”

 

On their way back from the cafeteria, Race waves at the security man. The security man waves back.

“What is this, like, a thing?” Jack asks.

Race shrugs. “They do a lot around here. We should be acknowledging that. Besides, that guy always looks like he needs a friend.”

“And you’re that friend now.”

“Why not?” Race pushes open the courtyard doors, which leads to a shortcut back to the arts building.

Jack hums. “Next time I’ll wave too.”

 

Race is acutely aware of Spot’s presence during the entirety of choir. Sometimes he swears that Spot is looking at him with the same kind of subtlety that he’s trying to use.

Maybe it’s just that Race is very focused on the amount of times they accidentally make eye contact. It certainly doesn’t seem normal, as though they’re watching each other far more than they do anyone else in the room. Maybe it’s just that Spot is the only one Race cares about, the only one he wants to see looking back.

-

_A shadowy hallway- the arts building basement. White, empty, sort of dirty._

_Caption: when ur the first one down to small ensemble and someone forgot to turn on the lights… I am gonna be murdered_

-

Martin leads them through a shaky warm-up and then pulls a stack of paper from his desk, grinning widely. He passes out the sheets of music all while staying completely silent, giving nothing more away.

The first horn part lands on Race’s stand: **STAR WARS MEDLEY.**

“Oh, yes,” Race says. “This is the best possible music we could be playing.”

“Right?” says Martin. It’s no secret that Martin, despite his intensity during the whole teaching portion of their time together, is likely the biggest nerd of them all. He talks often about the older fandoms, quoting Star Wars on a daily basis, and Race is pretty sure that despite his best insistence, Martin is actually the one who drew the Trek logo on his whiteboard.

Everyone is quickly scanning their parts, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and next to Race, Nick whispers, “Oh, Christ, that’s a high G.”

“Easy peasy!” Race teases. “Actually, fuck that. Bring it down if you can’t, that’s fine with me.”

Martin counts off, and they stumble through their first attempt at Star Wars. It sounds like shit, as all new songs do, but at the very least the tunes are recognizable. Martin reminds them to _read the music, guys,_ and to make sure they’re actually in time with each other and then they’re off again, still stumbling through but with slightly more purpose.

“Well,” says Martin at the end of their rehearsal, “that wasn’t terrible.”

That’s really all they can ask for.

 

When they get to the gymnasium for afternoon rec, Stone is there, lining up the campers in such a way that they’ll all fit in the hallway. He’s placed a Mario hat precariously upon his afro and there’s a small black Mario ‘stache painted onto his face.

“This is gonna be good,” Jack says. “I can just tell.”

Juniper appears behind him and calls for attention. She’s a tiny woman, barely visible past the third row despite the tall Luigi hat that’s slipping down her forehead. Stone gets her a chair to stand on so she can talk to the camp as a whole.

“So, like,” Juniper says, “there’s this thing. Called Mario Kart. And we’re, like, the best at it.”

She goes on to explain the game- _Live Mario Kart!_ \- and concedes with, “None of you can beat my score. I dare you to try.”

So they file into the gymnasium and onto the bleachers. In the center of the gym, Tiki and Talon are wearing nearly identical outfits, the key difference being that Tiki is swinging a pair of pool noodles and Talon is holding a crate of dodgeballs. Crunch is on the sidelines, a cardboard cut-out of a cloud pinned to her suspenders, holding a U-Turn sign.

And of course, sitting at the start line, Race sees the elementary school scooters and nearly shits himself because _memories_. There’s something about the idea of scooting across a gym floor, holding onto the handles for dear life- because otherwise, your fingers would die- that he associates specifically with younger, simpler days. And broken fingers.

They watch the first few teams compete against each other. It’s teams of three, each making one revolution around the figure-eight shaped track traced out on the floor of the gym. One person is standing and pushing the other two, who are steering and keeping everything together, and if they get hit by a dodgeball or run off the course they must rotate positions. It’s hectic, kind of a mess, and the exact chaos that is always expected from band camp.

Race loves it.

They’re called to the stand next: himself, Charlie, and Anna, who has somehow snagged a spot right next to him. The team they’re up against holds Jack, another one of Charlie’s flutes, and- oh, holy shit, Spot.

Today’s socks feature donuts on one foot and donut holes on the other. Race ogles them for longer than necessary as Charlie and Anna get into position- Charlie at the front, Anna in the middle, so it’s easier to switch when Race inevitably runs them into something. He and Anna are going to be the only ones switching, so Charlie gets comfortable and gives Race a thumbs-up.

Race puts his hands on Anna’s shoulders and crouches. He looks to his right, sizing up the competition.

“We’re gonna destroy you,” Spot says with a grin. Race loses himself in the deep brown of his eyes for just a second before his own face splits open in a smile.

“Fight me, Shortstack,” he quips. Spot laughs, loud and ugly and _amazing._ Stone blows his whistle. They each burst into motion.

Race is sure he’s got the head start, especially when Jack’s team takes the turn too wide and ends up having to switch before rounding the corner. Charlie gets hit with a dodgeball on their way around the top of the figure eight, so Race and Anna have to scramble, but Anna can only push them so far before she gets whacked in the knees by a pool noodle.

“You are the bane of my existence,” Race tells Tiki as he almost falls off the scooter.

They almost take the turn too sharp and waste precious time trying to correct. Charlie is screaming at them from the front. Somewhere, on his left now, Jack is hollering _we can pass ‘em just keep going we got this screw you racetrack higgins._

This, Race thinks, is what he’s going to miss.

Anna slaps him in the arm. “ _Keep going, dumbass!_ ”

Jack’s team wins by approximately half a second, and Race knows Jack is going to lord that over them for the rest of their lives. Still, as they stand up and stretch out and take a few deep breaths to combat the panic of shoving two friends and two scooters across a masking tape finish line, Race feels a strange sense of accomplishment.

The reason is revealed a second later, when Spot quirks an eyebrow at him and says, “Didn’t I tell you?”

“We need a re-match,” Race says. “Two a.m. in the Denny’s parking lot?”

“Deal,” Spot says. He holds out his fist.

Race’s brain shorts out rather violently and he high-fives Spot’s outstretched fist.

-

_Memo: Dumb Camp Things 2018_

_toe shoes- 2_  
_caffeine- 10_  
_“i hate harmonics”- 34_

_dumb things i’ve done thus far_  
_-spinach incident_  
_-charlie’s apple_  
_-HIGH FIVING SPOT’S FIST_

-

“Ghost hunting, ghost hunting, ghost hunting, ghost hunting,” Jack chants the moment they walk into their dorm. Race is still putting his key away as Jack pushes past him and up the stairs, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Guys, this is the best thing we’ve ever done.”

Race throws his backpack down on his bed. “Jack, if this little endeavor yours gets me killed, I’m going to join Joseph Three and scream in your ear until you beg for mercy.”

“Ditto, but worse,” Jack shoots back. “’Cause you’re gonna be recording it all.”

“Aw, babe, you read my mind.”

Charlie shouts something unintelligible from the kitchen. Jack flings himself over the balcony to listen. “What’s that, Crutch?”

“I said, you guys need to focus less on the ghost hunting and more about the fact that _Jack, you forgot to put the milk away this morning._ ”

“Oh, fuck.” Race looks up just in time to see Jack sprint past his room and rocket down the stairs faster than feasibly possible. “Fuck, my milk!”

_That’s what we always want to hear,_ thinks Race. He puts on sweatpants and exchanges his contacts for glasses and digs the heels of his hands into the hinges of his jaw. The resulting release is bliss on his tired mouth.

-

_A picture of Jack, holding a carton of spoiled milk and staring mournfully at it. Caption: this is called what not to do, kids_

-

“Going in,” Jack says, hand on the basement doorknob.

“Go for it,” Charlie says. “I’d love to come with, but I’d rather not come face-to-face with the ghost clarinet that’s giving me grief.”

-

_“We need music. Should I-”_

_“No need,” says Race. He hums the X-Files theme as the camera follow’s Jack’s back down the stairs._

_“That’s terrible,” Charlie says, voice equally far away._

-

_“Hey, lovelies,” Race says, turning the camera on himself. “We’re investigating our haunted basement. So far we’ve theorized it’s occupied by Joseph the Third, an unlucky camper murdered by the clarinets’ high notes. Who else might we find down here?”_

_“Race, are you snapchatting this?”_

_“You bet.”_

-

_“Oh, wow, holy shit,” Jack says, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “There’s like, nothing here.”  
The camera zooms in on the single round table that’s sitting in the corner, and then the industrial sized freezer._

_“Oh, fuck.” The camera whips up to the wall. “Is that a handprint?”_

-

_“Ghosts!” Jack yells, spreading his arms out. “Where are you, ya fucks?”_

-

_A picture of the sign on the wall: **WATER COOLING SYSTEM. DO NOT UNPLUG.**_

-

_The camera twirls around. “We could have a dance party in here.”_

_Jack starts singing the Chariots of Fire theme. The camera shakes, like Race is trying his best to dance his worst._

_There’s a loud knocking._

_“SHIT. GHOSTS.”_

-

It’s not ghosts.

Jack and Race manage to make it upstairs before Charlie opens the door to the twins, dropping by for daily evening room checks. They do a quick count-off before bidding the three friends goodnight, giving the usual lock your doors! farewell before disappearing off into the night.

“Are we even allowed to be in the basement?” Charlie asks, locking the door.

Jack shrugs. “Who the hell knows. Besides, I don’t think it’s haunted. The freezer looks pretty heavy-duty though.”

Race gasps, eyes wide. “Maybe Joseph the Third’s body is in the freezer.”

-

_“Welcome to my unboxing video!” says Jack loudly. He’s standing proudly next to the freezer. “I honestly have no idea what’s inside. Let’s find out.”_

_He hoists open the freezer door and peers inside. “Well, that’s disappointing.”_

_The camera floats over to the freezer, showing nothing but ice._

-

_Someone else is holding the camera this time, as Race is splayed across the table in the basement in a starfish position. “Well, friends,” he says, “I’m proud to tell- and show- you that we’re getting out of here with all our limbs intact. I’d say that was a pretty successful ghost adventure.”_

_“Are ghosts real?” Jack asks, from behind the camera. The view shakes, blacks out, and turns to front view, where Jack can be seen shaking his head._

_“Alright, asshole, give me my phone back.”_

-

Charlie is waiting in the bathroom at the top of the stairs, brushing his teeth. His eyebrows make the _how’d it go?_ look.

“Well,” Jack says, “I think we can safely say there will be no transparent beings floating through your door while you sleep.”

“And no physical beings with violent inclinations, either,” says Race. “Although that is why I let Jack go down the stairs first.”

“Wow, thanks, man. I always knew you really cared about my well-being.”

Charlie spits into the sink. “It’s entirely possible that you just disturbed the ghosts enough that they’ll start haunting you instead of me. Either way, I think I’ll sleep better from now on.”

Jack punches him lightly in the shoulder. “That’s what bros are for, bro.”

“That’s the most insufferably manly thing you’ve ever said.”

 

When Race dreams that night, he’s not haunted by the ghost of a teenage boy who opens his mouth and screams a high B flat that sounds like a clarinet. His dream is both a little bit weirder and a little bit more normal, and it’s something that he thinks should be analyzed fully and then dropped into a pit, never to be thought of again.

His aunt and uncle are at his house, for starters. Neither of them are electricians but they’re fixing the wiring in the bonus room. There’s a boy with them, someone Race has never met- their apprentice, apparently- and they make eye contact.

They drive away. They come back again. The boy asks him a question.

Race’s mother is chopping vegetables for dinner. He’s just been asked out on a date and really wants to go. His mother is ecstatic, dropping the knife and sweeping him up into a hug. It’s his first date. He’s going out for dinner.

The boy is on the driveway. Together they get into the car and drive away. They’re on their way to the date. Fade to black.

 

Race wakes up to his Band Camp Alarm and throws an arm over his face. His dream comes back to him in vivid detail and he realizes with a start that the boy in his dream wore Spot’s face.

“Christ, Joseph,” he mutters, still addled from sleep. “If you wanted to torture me, I would have preferred the clarinet noises.”

He rolls out of bed, turns off his alarm, and tries not to think about going out for dinner with the most wonderful mess of a boy he’s ever met.

 

He’s shirtless and on the toilet when the counselors arrive to wake them up, so he tragically misses the sight of Scratch and Freddi running around their dorm with their eyes covered in solo cups, screaming “ _My eyes! My eyyyess! They’ll come for you next!_ ”

Jack gives him the run-down later. Apparently it was a good one.

 

Race waves at the security guard and Jack does, too. Jack is also barefoot and holding his shoes in the same hand he uses to wave, so it looks more like he’s showing off his shoes than waving. Charlie laughs at them both and shoots the guard one of his more brilliant smiles, bright and happy and the perfect way to begin the day.

Spot is near the front of the breakfast line, but he gives Race a quick smile-and-nod as they go by, tracing their well-worn path to the very back of the line. They’re usually the last out the door, and it’s become sort of a Thing, like if they ever decided one day to come to breakfast early the order of the universe would be severely shaken. Jack still hasn’t put his shoes on.

“Musicians Without Shoes two ‘kay eighteen,” Jack says. “It’s a new campaign.”

It’s well-known amidst the advanced band that the French horns do not wear shoes during rehearsal. Race, however, usually puts his own shoes back on at the end of rehearsal, whereas it looks like Jack has chosen to go without for the entire day. “You’re gonna kill your feet.”

Jack shrugs. “There are worse ways to go. Thoroughly embarrassing yourself in front of an attractive trumpet player by putting a spinach leaf on his plate, for example.”

“ _Fuck you._ ”

-

_A photo of Jack, barefoot on the cold tile of the arts building. Caption: taking bets now… when is jack going to admit defeat and put his goddamn shoes back on?_


	5. How to Make Friends... and Then Make More Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Thursday, and by extension it's Skit Night. The boys are ready to bring down the house. 
> 
> Also, in no particular order: a kidnapping, earwax, and a sock date. Typical band camp? Definitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my goodness everybody I had really hoped I'd get this chapter up before school started but as we can see, that definitely Did Not Happen. here it is, though, and it's longer than usual as a result! we're really getting the plot going now and I'm loving it.

It’s Thursday morning, and that means one thing and one thing only: Skit Night.

Skit Night happens on the Thursday evening recreation of each week of camp. It’s an opportunity for students, faculty, and counselors alike to produce something to show to the camp, whether it’s a sketch or a song or something that’s just _weird_. Or, sometimes, all of the above. Skit Night has a reputation of being one of the best nights of camp, and this year will definitely be no exception.

“We should do something,” Race says at breakfast. He leans over the table to steal one of Charlie’s potatoes.

Charlie flicks him. “Stick to your own potatoes, dingus. I agree, though.”

They both simultaneously turn to Jack, hoping desperately that Jack will immediately sprout a wonderful idea and solve all their problems. Jack freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. “I got nothing, guys.”

“Great,” Charlie says, at the same time that Race says, “Disappointing.”

Jack lifts an eyebrow. “When have I ever had good ideas?”

“The time you stuck my tennis ball inside your trombone and shot it across the stage.”

“ _Very nearly_ hitting that one arrogant sax kid in the head with your slide so he’d stop being annoying.”

“Commissioning a cake for my birthday that said _Happy Bort_ because you know how much I love bakery fuck-ups.”

“Standing back and letting me hit sax kid with my crutches because he went too far.”

“The Blast-O Ukulele Contraption 5000. And 5001. And 5002.”

Jack puts up a hand, wielding his fork like a physical barrier to stop the suggestions. “Fine, fine, you’ve proved your point. Although,” he waves his fork recklessly, “the Blast-O Ukulele Contraptions 5000 through 5004 never actually worked.”

“Meh,” says Charlie. “The idea was solid gold, though.”

“I can just see it,” Race says dramatically, throwing up his hands. “The lights come up. The stage is empty. And then- here comes Jack, zooming across the blacktop, a ukulele in one hand and a rocket launcher in the other- a small one, of course, because we don’t want to burn down the place- and he opens his mouth, and then-”

Jack throws back his head and yodels.

The cafeteria, surprisingly, has not gone silent, although the campers sitting at the other end of their table give them weird looks. “It’s a testament to how insane everyone is that no one stops to wonder why yodeling is accepted at breakfast,” Jack says.

“Everyone knows it’s you,” Race says. “Jack Kelly, our resident yodeler.”

“I’ll stick to my ugly trombone and art reputation, thank you very much.”

They eat in silence for a few moments. Then Race slams down his fork, stares Jack right in the eye, and says, “ _Trombone paintball._ ”

“Oh, fuck, yes.”

-

_A picture of Jack, ketchup on his chin, giving the camera a thumbs-up. Caption: trombone-art-yodeling-paintball extraordinaire. this guy’s the real deal. what other hidden talents can we unearth?_

-

Medda cuts off the clarinets halfway through rehearsal and tells them that they’re all flat. None of the horns wear shoes. Jack’s trombones decide it’s too early in the morning to switch places during part changes and one of the tenor saxophones sneezes into his instrument while playing, creating the most obnoxious sound imaginable in the middle of their gentlest song.

It’s a typical rehearsal.

“Measure seventeen,” Medda says. “Trombones, are we in order?”

There’s a deep silence, then all three of them simultaneously chorus, “No.”

Someone on the other side of the band hoots at them. Medda rubs at the crease in her eyebrows. “You boys are going to be the death of me.”

“I assure you, that’s definitely _not_ the plan, Miss Medda,” Jack says. Race snorts at him; they make eye contact and Jack winks.

 _“Seventeen,”_ says Medda, apparently giving up. She reaches up to put her earplugs in and then takes them out again. “I hope you all know what’s going on when I use these.”

One of the tubas suggests, “You’re trying to block out the sound of missed pitches and awful tuning?”

“Precisely,” Medda says. Then she chuckles. “There’s a lot of sound coming at me all at once because you guys are just so darn _loud._ These don’t block the sound, they just filter it to protect my ears so I don’t end up deaf before this camp is over.”

Varying noises of understanding carry across the band. One of the first clarinets, in the very first row, asks a quiet question.

“Can you _try them?"_ Medda repeats.

The clarinet nods fervently. Race can just see her from where he sits two rows behind. The band titters.

“Well, I’d imagine that would be rather… unhygienic.” Medda’s smile is bright. “They’re not too expensive, unless you want them custom-fit- which I’d recommend-”

“Actually,” says one of the flutes, shoving her hand in the air just briefly before speaking, “studies show that the only thing of interest that could be transferred through sharing earplugs is yeast.”

The band is reasonably quiet just long enough for the fourth trumpet to say, “Does that mean you could make bread from earwax?”

And, _oh boy,_ there’s nothing that could stop the band now. The general consensus is that that comment is the funniest thing anyone’s heard all morning, and it’s evident in the way even the guilty trumpet rocks his chair onto two legs and laughs.

Medda, in between bursts of laughter, says, “Don’t you dare think that it’s crazy. I was thinking the same thing.”

The uproar that follows is so loud Crunch pokes her head in. “What’s going on?” she asks, regarding the entire hysterical band led by a woman who is currently leaning on her stand in order to stay upright.

“Earwax bread,” says Nori, who sits on the end of the row and therefore is the closest to Crunch. “It’s- it’s kind of a story.”

Crunch sweeps her gaze over the band, all in varying states of disarray, and elects not to comment as she nods and dips out again. Medda waves her hands in the universal symbol of _all right, quiet down._ There’s a tear leaking down the side of her face that she seems not to realize.

“Christ,” Romeo whispers, leaning over to Race. “There’s not much that can top that.”

Then, there’s a commotion across the band, near the flutes and low saxophones. Medda leans forward. “What’s that?”

“It brings-” sputteres one of the second flutes, dissolving immediately into giggles- “-it brings a new meaning to _elephant ear pastries.”_

Medda throws up her hands, and the band takes another minute and a half to settle again. “You kids are something else,” she says. “I’ve never had such a stimulating conversation in the middle of rehearsal.”

 _“Stimulating,”_ Romeo repeats under his breath. “God, what a day.”

“It’s only gonna get better,” Race says, loud enough that apparently Spot hears and laughs behind him. Something in his stomach clenches and Race tries hard to cover it up.

Apparently it’s more obvious than he thinks, because Romeo stretches out a socked foot and places it gently on Race’s knee. “Chillax, man, the incident is probably far out of his mind by now. You guys need to be friends now.”

“We’re supposed to fight behind a Denny’s at two in the morning,” Race says quietly. “Is that friendship?”

Romeo pats his knee with his foot. “You’re getting there, buddy. You’re getting there.”

 

Jack barrels into Race as he’s putting his horn away and holds out his phone.

 

_reblog from jacks-art:_  
@ftrain  
When the moon hits your knees  
And you mispronounce trees  
Sycamore 

 

“SKIT NIGHT,” says Jack.

“YES,” says Race.

Together, they scan the room for Charlie, who never dismantles his flute in the same place twice, and when they find him, they each yell a different version of the same thing. Charlie stares at them for an indeterminately long amount of time.

“SKIT NIGHT,” Jack yells.

“YES,” Charlie yells back.

Jack elbows Race in the ribs, hard. “I think he’s on board.”

“He hasn’t even seen the post yet.” Even as he says it, Race knows that there’s no way Charlie is backing out- with arguably the best voice of them all, he’d be damned if he didn’t get his moment on the Skit Night Stage.

Jack chuckles, an _oh-ho-ho_ that sounds suspiciously conspiratorial. “He’ll join us.”

“You’re making it sound like a threat.”

Rounding on him, eyes wide, Jack says, “What if it is?”

Charlie chooses that moment to push aside a chair and join them. Race opens his mouth and manages to say, “Jack’s probably going to murder you in your sleep if you don’t,” before Jack claps a hand over his mouth.

“I will smack you with this,” Charlie warns Jack, holding up a crutch. “You know what I can do with these.”

“I don’t doubt your wickedness,” Jack says sagely. He winds his unoccupied arm around Race’s waist and picks him up, ignoring Race’s muffled protest. “That being said, please don’t hurt me.”

He makes a swift exit from the auditorium. Race, mouth uncovered, shouts _“This is a kidnapping!”_ until they’re out of sight.

Charlie stares after them. “Exit, pursued by a bear,” he mutters.

He begins to head to the Forum.

 

“Okay, so,” Jack says, armed with a pencil and a notebook and an iced coffee. “We need more lyrics.”

He’s dropped Race unceremoniously on the floor, where Race has stayed, leaning against the side of Jack’s booth bench with his feet propped on the table. Somehow, Charlie had claimed the seat first, making it to the Forum before either of the others, and sits contentedly with his hot chocolate.

 

_(“A cryptid,” Jack gasps, upon seeing Charlie already seated in the Forum. “Racetrack, I do believe we’ve been living with an otherworldly being for the past week.”_

_Race, who has long since accepted his fate, reaches out a hand and accidentally slaps Jack in the face. “I’m not surprised. Have you seen that fucker? He’s like. The best man in the world.”_

_“Gentlemen,” Charlie greets. “I bought us drinks. Starbucks.”_

_“How the fuck?”)_

 

“We’ve got Sycamore-ay,” Race says. He boosts himself forward and cranes his neck to see the singular line written in the notebook. “Uh. Um. What are some things that end in –ay?”

Jack shoots him finger guns and says, “Ayyyy.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You know it.”

Charlie takes a drink of hot chocolate and says, “Disarray, sashay, May, forte, fillet, bray, part-ay.”

 _"God._ Okay. Give a man time to write stuff down.” Jack devolves into furious scribbling. “Any ideas stemming from that?”

“Forte is a music term,” Race points out unhelpfully.

“Wow, thanks, gold star for effort.”

The table shakes as Race shuffles his feet. “Or, alternatively, we could make this all about camp. It could become the unofficial camp anthem. We could _band together_ to create something spectacular.”

Jack flicks him in the ear. “That was for the pun. But that’s not a bad idea, Racey. We could work with that.”

-

_The camera scans down the sheet of paper, which has a singular line of lyrics. The margin is covered in rhyming words and the rest of the page is blank._

_Race: “The creative process is bullshit.”_

-

Race’s Star Wars ensemble goes about as well as all the rest of them have; they sight-read a few classical pieces with limited success and struggle through another half an hour of music theory and chord progressions. Still, progress has been made, and at the end of the rehearsal Race feels less inclined to pitch his head through a wall.

During their second break, The Three Amigos- or so Race has coined them- manage to rework most of the lyrics of their song to fit the camp theme. Jack is clutching his water bottle in one hand and another iced coffee in his other hand, nearly vibrating. With a final swipe of the pencil, Race holds up the notebook containing the final product of their work.

Jack reaches out with the hand holding the water and slowly flips off the page of lyrics.

“Oh, come on,” Charlie says. “It wasn’t that bad.” He holds his hands up when Jack fixes him with a deadly stare. “Look, I get that rhyming isn’t your forte-”

“I just tried. To rhyme piano. With dildo. And it wasn’t a problem until one of you fuckers told me that it was _inappropriate for camp._ It took me five goddamn minutes to realize that they don’t actually rhyme and this is my second cup of coffee today and I’ve already also had two solid cups of tea and I will be _literally haunted by That’s Amore for the rest of my life._ ”

“Jack,” Race says gently. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“That’s the point,” says Jack. He sounds weak, exhausted. “My life is in shambles.”

Charlie reaches out and pats Jack on the shoulder with the pad of his crutch. “There, there.”

“I’ve hit rock bottom and I’m only eighteen years old. All there’s left to do is throw me down a jackhammer and let me dig myself deeper.”

“Heh,” says Race. “ _Jack_ hammer.”

Jack starts groaning and doesn’t stop. The universe, naturally, chooses that very moment to enter a pair of people Race would very much love to _not_ see- a suffocatingly attractive Hawaiian-print-clad lead trumpet and his very own third horn, walking and talking and being _friendly_ as Jack is vocally admonishing life itself.

Anna, being the goddamn friendly woman she is, ignores Jack completely and waves at Race, grinning in a way that makes him feel stupidly okay with the world.

Spot, being the goddamn asshole he is, decides to walk over.

“It’s not really what it looks like,” Race says.

What it looks like, though, is this: Jack is double-fisting a pair of drinks that are definitely the cause of his visible shaking, and his groan has begun to sound more like a confused donkey than a curse. Charlie is opposite the table from Jack, but one of his arms is extended and his crutch is resting atop Jack’s forehead. They create a wonderful embarrassment sandwich for Race, who is sitting on the floor straddling the table, displaying his skateboard-pizza socks to the world.

Spot regards them with a hand over his mouth, just barely hiding a smile. “I like your socks.”

Race wiggles his toes. “Thanks. You can’t borrow them until tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.” Spot raises his eyebrows. “But if you’re offering…”

Race’s life flashes before his eyes as he says, “I’ll trade you. Duck socks for pizzas on skateboards?”

“It’s a deal.” Spot’s eyes are twinkling. He reaches out to give Race a proper fist bump, no high-fiving necessary. “I’m in 9A. Come by before check-in tonight and we can trade.”

Jack decides to enter back into reality and cracks an eye open to see Spot leaning across the table. “Oh, hello.”

Charlie casually removes the crutch from Jack’s forehead. “Didn’t see you there.”

“God,” Race says. “You guys are freaky. Like twins. You’ve got some telepathic sixth sense or something.”

Jack winks at him. “Or something.”

“I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” says Spot. He’s smiling broadly, and the sight of it makes Race’s heart flutter. “Tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Race says. He lifts his hand in a half-completed wave as Spot jogs away, catching up to Anna at the edge of the Forum. Distracted, he barely comprehends the _oooooooh_ that is rising from both of his best friends.

-

_The video is swinging wildly back and forth as Jack is holding the camera out of reach of Race, who is very nearly climbing on him. “Give it- Jack, don’t be an asshole-”_

__

__

_In the background, Charlie is chanting, “Date! Date! Date! Date!”_

-

_A picture of Charlie, pointing a crutch menacingly at the camera. Caption: his name is inigo montoya. you killed his father. prepare to die._

-

The remainder of the day goes by in a surprisingly mundane fashion. Choir is choir, and although they do manage to absolutely fail at a song that is mostly acapella shots, it’s constantly a good time.

In their afternoon rec period, they present what they have to the counselors filtering Skit Night- Freddi and Plato, who both supremely enjoy it- and then they’re free, unleashed upon the band camp world with _That’s Amore_ still firmly stuck in their heads.

For the rest of the hour, they sit in the common area and play six different variations of tic-tac-toe on the backside of the notebook. Three-way tic-tac-toe is difficult but they make it work just well enough for Charlie to win four games in a row.

“Cryptid,” whispers Jack.

It’s time for dinner.

 

Juniper’s breath into the microphone inevitably causes people to jump. As usual, she looks happiest to see that it’s one of the senior campers who has chosen the seat closest to the portable speaker. “Getting comfy, Jo? Not anymore!”

Jo, who is another well-loved acquaintance of Race’s, says, “Glad to be of service,” and tips an invisible hat in Juniper’s direction. He’s one half of the senior band’s baritone saxophone section and lived with the three amigos last year before bringing a mass of friends to his final year of camp.

 _Nice one,_ Race mouths when Jo turns back around. He, too, tips an invisible hat.

Juniper continues on with evening announcements, holding up a single lost key lanyard- no one Race knows, thank god- and then she says, “And you all know what tonight is.”

Most of the cafeteria enthusiastically screams the answer of Skit Night, although a table in the corner yells Trivia Night to make it sound a little less unified. Juniper screeches out a small giggle. “Skit Night, yes,” she says. “Trivia night, no. Sorry, Andi and company.”

Andi and company hoot and holler their response, so it ends up sounding more like a cheer and less like whatever they were trying to say.

“Anyway,” Juniper says. “A lot of you have been through the motions before. After the recital tonight, make your way down to the Box like usual- we’ll have a little bit of extra changeover time, so feel free to grab a drink of water while you wait- but I want every camper who is _performing_ tonight to see Plato or Freddi- preferably both- in the back service hall before we start. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Jack says at a normal volume as the rest of the cafeteria nearly screams their affirmation. Charlie nods. There’s approximately three forkfuls of rice in his mouth.

-

_A picture of the notebook lyric page, focused on the title. Some other words can be identified, but not many._

_Caption: skit night, here we come!!!!_

-

Since they’re excited, the evening rehearsal seems to drag on forever. It’s anticipation that causes Race to check his watch what seems like every four minutes exactly, so frequently that Romeo leans over and whispers, “You anxious or something?”

“Oh, just wait and see,” Race replies conspiratorially. “It’s gonna knock your socks off.”

Romeo’s socks have hedgehogs on them. He stretches them out and Race meets him in the middle with his own pizza skateboards. It’s a moment of infinite sock power.

 

Jack bounds out of his seat once they’re released from the night’s concert, leaving Race and Charlie alone to navigate away from the quickly dispersing crowd. “He’s planning something,” Charlie says immediately. “He winked at me.”

“Oh, heck,” says Race. “Guess we’ll find out in a minute.”

Jack is not in the service hallway when they finally approach. Freddi is standing on a chair, addressing the crowd of campers that has gathered around him. He’s wearing a giant top hat, which kind of distracts from what he’s trying to say, but the message is mostly just _keep track of where you are in the program and try to come out at least two performances before yours._ Race figures he can pass on the message to Jack, if Jack ever reappears.

“Maybe he had to pee,” he wonders lamely. Charlie shakes his head. They file into the Box, where most of the camp has already situated itself onto the floor in a wide audience. Race sits on the floor in front of the chair Charlie selects for himself. Jack is still nowhere to be seen.

The lights dim. Freddi strolls to the middle of the stage, big hat and all, and says: “Welcome.”

There’s an uproar. Freddi watches, barely containing his smile. “Welcome one, welcome all, to the Carnival of Musical Incompetence! Sponsored by the Juniper Please Stop Talking About Your Fiancé organization.”

Juniper, who is manning the tech in the corner, laughs aloud. “It’s not my fault!” she yells over the cheering of the campers.

 _“Tonight,”_ continues Freddi, “will be a night of danger! Suspense! Brave feats of intense concentration and energy and prowess! You will laugh, you will cry, you may even pee a little. Please don’t do that in here, though. Prepare yourselves, esteemed guests, for our first event. Give him a lake, he’ll skip across it no problem, give him an ocean he’ll dive in; I give you The Amazing Stone!” He swipes his arm towards the stage door.

Skit Night begins with a flourish.

Stone’s performance, which turns into Stone And Crunch With a Side Dish of Plato, involves words like _contrapuntal_ and _megalomaniac_ and _squish_ and a significant amount of roasting each other. It’s followed directly by a group from the Intermediate band, who make some farting noises on their clarinets and then play an actual song using pitched sounds that clarinets should not be able to make. The counselors do their annual Bucket Contest. Another group of campers performs another skit.

Race stares at the program he holds in his hand. “We should get going,” he whispers up to Charlie. “Where’s Jack?”

Jack still hasn’t appeared yet. They leave the room as inconspicuously as they can.

Outside in the service hall, which so far has served as the backstage area, Nebula sits wearing a _the truth is out there_ t-shirt and a tutu. “Don’t ask,” she says. “You’ll see.”

“Will we?” says Jack, entering existence abruptly, right behind the pair of friends.

His sudden appearance makes Race jump. “What the _heck where did you come from where were you oh my god Jack you can’t just do that.”_

“Cryptid,” Charlie accuses. “And you said _I was the weird one.”_

“You are,” Jack says, unperturbed. Nebula laughs at them. They’ve still got a few more performances to wait through, but Race is finding it a little easier to breathe now that Jack has made his re-entrance.

They miss the staff performance, which is unfortunate. Staff performances are legendary for their strangeness and wit, as the faculty members are by far the most mysterious of them all and therefore train the camp to have absolutely no expectations. One of the flute instructors exits the stage with a streak of blue paint across his face. He winks at Charlie, and once he’s gone, Charlie says, “I’m positive that’ll be the last I ever see of him. He’ll disappear for an indeterminate amount of time and then reappear like Gandalf like _haha, surprise, I was never gone.”_

“Tune up,” says Nebula. “You guys are on after this.”

 

Race is the first one to walk onstage, which definitely doesn’t help with his nerves. Jack is still in stealth mode, so the only footsteps he can hear behind him are Charlie’s, paired with the quiet _click_ of his crutches.

“Hey,” he says, giving a small wave to the audience. “We are- we’re the boys of 8B and tonight we’ve got something really dumb for y’all.”

Jack elbows him in the side, steps forward, and says, “We present to you, _That’s Amore_ \- with a little camp twist.” He hums a tuning note. “Hit it, boys.”

Race spares a side-glance at Jack, then stares back into the audience and has a sudden, violent realization that Spot is in the front row and watching him intently. _Fuck it,_ he thinks. He gives the man one of his most charming grins and starts to sing.

They haven’t got any choreography, but they’re going pretty over-the-top with actions and attempting the most operatic voices possible without sounding like a triad of drunk sewer rats. 

And then- at the beginning of verse two- Race hears a noise.

It’s a low brass instrument. Trombone, maybe. And it’s coming from the service hall.

Jack is grinning larger than usual, on the verge of breaking down into laughter, and Race thinks: _oh. He planned this._

Winston, one half of the low brass staff duo, makes a grand entrance onto the stage, gracefully blarting out notes that create the perfect background music for their song. Jack’s plotting and subsequent disappearance makes so much sense now; they end on a harmony and Jack shouts, “Special guest, Winston!” and the audience goes wild.

It’s surreal. They bow, and Jack grabs Race’s hand, and just before they exit stage the crowd is _still_ clapping and Spot cups his hands to his mouth and hoots. Race feels a rush of intense _something,_ a feeling that he can’t quite name- it rests deep in his stomach, the fact that this may never happen again.

He wants it to. He wants to live inside the feeling of applause, of the community of camp, and most of all, the feeling he had when Spot looked at him and expressed nothing but friendship.

“Excellent job, boys,” says Jack. “I daresay we stole their hearts.”

Winston claps Jack on the back and makes his exit. Charlie takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think we had it in us.”

“Jack, that was _genius._ I can’t believe you managed to rope Winston into playing for us.”

Jack shrugs. “He’s the crafty sort. I figured he’d be down.” He ruffles Charlie’s hair, punches Race in the shoulder, and says, “I’ve got to hit the water fountain. See you guys inside?”

They nod. Jack retreats up the hallway. For a moment, not-quite-nostalgia is all Race knows.

-

_Selfie of the trio inside the Box, waiting for the final skit of the night. Everyone is glowing, elated, almost absurdly so. Caption: we did it, lads!!_

-

“Hold on,” Race says when they get to the front step of their apartment. “Go on ahead, I’ve got something to do.”

Charlie brushes by him and whispers, _“Date.”_

“Shut up.”

The night air is cool. There’s the slightest of breezes, enough to make Race wish he’d picked up a sweater earlier in the day. Campers around are still gathered in the common green space in front of the apartments, and portions of conversations float their way over to where he’s standing.

It takes a little bit of courage-gathering for Race to finally walk up to apartment 9A and knock on the door. Inside, there’s some commotion. He hears someone yell _what the fuck we just got home_ and another yell _if you don’t get the door I’m flushing your mouthpiece down the toilet_ and then, only then, does the door swing open.

“Hi,” Race says lamely to someone who is definitely not Spot.

“Yo,” says Not-Spot. “Which of us fine dudes are you looking for?”

“Spot.”

Not-Spot nods. “A’ight. You’ve caught him at an inconvenience, but I’ll let you in anyway. Name’s Jeremy.”

“Race,” Race says, and he could swear he hears someone upstairs say, “Oh, _shit.”_

Jeremy steps aside so Race can enter the apartment. All the apartments are identical, being a string of college dorms, but they’re different in the sense that each group who lives in them makes the apartment their pseudo-home. There is one sock shoved over each end of the railing and Race can see a saxophone case in the sitting area that’s covered with a blanket and has a paper plate resting on top of it. Jeremy sticks his head up the stairs and screams, _“Spotty boy, your date is here.”_

_“Hold on a goddamn second, I’ve got no fucking pants on.”_

Race feels his ears grow red and silently curses his complexion for making his embarrassment so constantly obvious. Jeremy opens the fridge to hide a smile and resurfaces with a bottle of water and a bar of chocolate. “Want some?” he offers.

“You keep your chocolate in the fridge? That’s weird, man.”

“It’s been hot,” Spot says, standing at the entrance to the sitting room. “It was starting to melt.”

Race points to the wall next to him. “Thermostat.”

“Oh, fuck, really?” Jeremy sprints over and nearly shoves Spot out of the way. “Shit, you’re right, holy fuck. We could’a used this yesterday.”

Spot grins at him, and then at Race, who is standing in front of the couch because sitting down felt way too awkward and he’s already bright red. Behind him, Jeremy is continually discovering new things about the thermostat and making ooh noises. “So, socks?”

“Socks,” says Race. Neither of them move.

Jeremy disappears from the hallway, and they can hear him yelling up the stairs, _“Guys, we have a thermostat!”_

“Tuba?” Race guesses, because he’s trying to make conversation and he literally has never noticed Jeremy in the band before.

Spot laughs. “Percussion. Good guess, though. He used to be a tuba.” He glances around, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Socks. Just give me a sec, I can go grab-”

“I’ll come with-” says Race, stepping forward. “Then you don’t have to go so far.”

“It’s just stairs, I’ll walk you to the door.”

“Gentlemanly.” They’ve already started walking.

The stairs are too thin for two people to comfortably walk up side-by-side, so Race lets Spot lead the way. They pass an open room with the remainder of Spot’s roommates sitting in various positions: Jeremy is straddling the chair, and the other two have their legs tangled together as they lay across the bed. One of them is hanging over the foot of the bed and catches Race’s eye as they go by. “Spotty,” he yells. “You didn’t tell us you had a guest.”

“Didn’t you hear my announcement?” asks Jeremy, finding an eraser on the desk and throwing it at him.

Spot halts before they get to his bedroom. “French horn, meet tenor saxophone two and clarinet one. You’ve already met Token Straight Boy.”

“Bold of you to assume I exist,” says Jeremy.

The one hanging over the edge of the bed lifts up his hand. His face is slowly growing red. “Michael. Sax two.”

“Babe, you’re gonna pass out if you keep that up.” The remaining one shoots Race a long-suffering smile. “Ryan. Clarinet. You staying the night?”

 _“Socks,”_ Spot says firmly, dragging Race away from them. Spot’s bedroom is neat but not unlived in; the desk is set with a stack of music, camp forms, and toiletries, and there’s a shirt hanging off the back of the chair that looks like it was thrown from across the room. The drawers are unused, as shown when Spot pulls his suitcase out from under the bed and roots around in the mess of clothes for the pair of rubber duck socks. “They’re in here somewhere, I swear.”

“Neat,” says Race. He’s looking around the bedroom as though it’s not almost the exact same as his own. “In our apartment, this is Jack’s room.”

“Ah,” Spot says, “Jack.” He says it with weight, like there’s a history between the two of them that is some sort of heavy secret. “Aha!”

He resurfaces with the pair of socks. Race looks down at his feet and begins to tug off his own. “You know Jack?” he asks.

“Used to, before I moved away,” Spot says. “Our parents were friends.”

“Jack’s a foster kid.”

Spot doesn’t meet his eyes. “Wasn’t when I knew him.”

“Oh.” Race’s sock slides off his foot with a final tug. He thrusts the pair of socks in Spot’s direction. “One order of pizzas on skateboards?”

“That would be mine,” Spot says. He’s smiling gently. “One order of rubber ducks?”

Race makes grabby-hands. “I’ve had my eye on them since you first wore them.”

“I can guarantee I’ve had my eye on you before that.” Spot winks.

Race’s ears heat up again and he says, “Oh, Jesus Christ, they just returned to normal.” He claps his hands over them like it’s going to somehow bring forth less attention. “Man, just when you think you’re good, some cute kid decides to open his mouth and suddenly your ears have a mind of their own.”

“Cute?”

“You’re wearing a pair of rainbow Mickey Mouse shorts and a shirt with Han Solo holding a trumpet. I think that’s the definition.”

Spot opens his mouth to reply when the barrage of room-checking-counselor knocking starts at the front door. They stare at each other for a moment.

“I should go,” Race says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta be back in my room before room checks.”

Spot swallows hard. “Yeah. And room checks are, you know, right now.”

“Yeah.”

The knocking continues, so Race lifts his hand, says, “Thanks for the socks,” and backs out of the room and down the stairs. Talon and Scratch are standing in the doorway when he swings open the front door. “You don’t belong here,” says Talon.

“You are very correct, and I am on my way out,” Race says quickly. “The others are upstairs. Have a fantastic night.”

He flees the apartment, holding onto a pair of rubber duck socks like they’re his last refuge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOPEFULLY next update will be a little closer. I've already got a good portion of it done, so we can hope?
> 
> tell me some things you thought!!! love love love!!!


	6. On Companions, Soulmates, and Really Weird People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of the first week. This means a lot of different things for a lot of different people. It means good clothes, good food, a good time. Sometimes it also means threats and bare feet and the beginning of something new.

Everything feels just a little bit off-kilter when Race wakes up. His alarm is too quiet and has been ringing for the past five minutes, and when he rolls out of bed to turn it off his entire phone shuts down in his hand. It’s out of battery.

A peek out the window reveals that the sky is gray and the clouds are swollen, not quite spilling rain yet but well on their way to. There’s a singular moth still fluttering around the street lamp that stands just outside.

The rubber duck socks hang off the edge of Race’s chair. He picks them up slowly.

“Jack, did you steal my eyeliner again?”

Race blinks. The world seems to have snapped into place, suddenly and abruptly with Charlie’s break of silence. It’s a normal day. Why shouldn’t it be?

Jack’s response of “Why, do you need it back?” cements his place in reality. He shakes his head to get rid of the dust.

It’s Friday, and Fridays are Banquet Days. There’s a small afternoon concert featuring the three- to six-person ensembles from the intermediate band, followed by a tablecloth dinner in the cafeteria and an evening dance. In the past, they’ve been encouraged to bring formal wear, to have a night of letting loose and enjoying the life they’ve created at camp. This year is no different.

Race opens his door to see Jack in their shared bathroom, using the stolen eyeliner pen as a pointer as he says, “You’re up late.”

“Forgot to charge my phone,” Race says. “Besides, I was planning on changing later.”

“Coward,” says Jack. “Do it now. Embrace it! Be cool!”

Jack wears a goofy smile, and his face is so enthusiastic that Race can’t help but concede. “Fine. But if I look like a mess, I’m blaming you two.”

“Fine with me,” Jack shrugs. “I’m going in hot, baby.”

 

Thankfully, they are not the only three people in the cafeteria wearing formal clothes. Others seem to have had the same idea, a combination of years of campers, and Race feels a little bit better about his pale purple shirt plus deep burgundy tie combination. Jack laughed when he first saw it- “I didn’t know you even _owned_ a bow tie, holy shit”- but Race is adamant that it looks good and that’s that.

Romeo plunks his tray down next to them and says, “Looks like I missed the memo.” He’s wearing last year’s band shirt, which has paint all over the front and signatures all over the back. “I’m changing during second break.”

“Good luck,” Charlie says. “I don’t know if we get a second break today.”

Romeo looks briefly horrified. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Yeah, actually.” Charlie’s smiles is giant. In the background, Jack nearly chokes on his pancake. Charlie continues: “I do it sometimes, see if I can still pull it off.”

Race shakes his head. “Charles, you are the king of deadpan.”

“What did I tell you about calling me Charles?” Race feels a threatening crutch-nudge against the side of his knee and shakes his head. Charlie leans back, satisfied. “Good.”

“So there is still a second break?” Romeo asks. He looks painfully confused, and Race laughs at him. “Yes? Oh, okay, thank god. I was worried that I’d missed my chance to change.”

“First?” suggests Jack.

“Can’t. I’ve got a lesson.”

Race tips his chair backwards, rocking onto the back two legs, scanning the cafeteria. It’s a typical morning, each of the tables holding their usual groups of friends. Some of the kids are wearing their own formal wear, and some are like Romeo, wearing the exact opposite.

His eyes catch on the back of someone with a blue blazer hung over the back of their cafeteria chair. Their shirt is deep indigo-purple and Race can only think, _I want that._

And then the person turns around and _I want that shirt_ turns into _oh my god holy shit does this boy own any item of clothing I don’t want_ because naturally, cool-shirt-kid is also Spot and sadly will always be Spot.

Race doesn’t want to think about last night. He does, however, want to walk over and tell Spot that he wouldn’t mind stealing that shirt at some point, so he scoots his chair out and says, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” and does just that. He isn’t sure where the confidence comes from.

“Hey!” Spot looks genuinely happy to see him. “How are you liking the socks?”

“They’re perfect,” Race says, and he tugs up his pants to show Spot the rubber ducks that are hiding underneath. “Pizzas on skateboards?”

“You betcha,” Spot agrees. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Race twists his hands together. “I just wanted you to know that I now, in fact, want to steal your entire wardrobe and not just your sock drawer.”

Alongside Spot at the table, Michael and Ryan burst out laughing. Race notices that Michael’s wearing the hoodie that Ryan was wearing the night before and realizes exactly what that sounded like.

Spot bites his lip like he’s trying not to laugh as hard as the others. “I’d say go for it, but I’m scared I’d be left with nothing to wear.”

Jeremy gives Race a thumbs up and mouths _do it anyway._

“Ah, well,” Race says. He rubs the back of his neck and prays that he’s already deep enough in this hole that the universe will give him a break. “I just. Really like your,” he waves a hand in Spot’s direction, “ensemble.”

“Thanks,” Spot grins. “You too, though. That tie is superb.”

_“Fucking superb, you funky little gay,”_ whispers Ryan.

“Thanks.” Race blinks. Juniper breathes on the microphone and the cafeteria quiets down. He leaps into the first available seat, conveniently right next to Spot.

Jupiter’s announcements are as per usual- where the warm-up rooms are, which counselors are giving out medication- and then she says, “Who’s ready for tonight?”

There’s a resounding cheer throughout the cafeteria. “Alright, folks, here’s the deal,” Juniper continues. “Whatever you’ve got after second break- choir or small groups- will be cut a tad short today. When three fifteen rolls around I want everyone in the senior band in the audience of the auditorium and all the intermediate band children backstage. Capiche?”

“Capiche,” choruses the campers.

Spot leans over and whispers, “This is usually my favourite part of camp. We get to see how all the minis progressed over the course of the week and it’s so much fun.”

“You call ‘em minis like you weren’t one just recently,” Jeremy tells him. “Like, two years ago.” Spot waves a hand: _whatever._ They miss the next set of announcements but Race is pretty sure they were directed towards the intermediate campers, which they are not.

Juniper dismisses them with a very cheery wish to have a good morning. Race stands and stretches, popping six vertebrae and a few bones in his shoulders in the process. “I’ve still got stuff where I was sitting. See you later?”

Spot smiles at him with an expression that Race can’t exactly decipher. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d call it _sweet._ It makes the weird feeling in his stomach come back, but this time it’s not unwelcome and it doesn’t throw off his world. It just nestles, like it’s finding a home.

-

_Picture of the three amigos, each in their own version of formal wear, each looking fantastic. Caption: Friday number one! we’re gonna rock your world_

-

_chat with russetromeo_

_higginzzz: fuck. me. up. the. ass._

_russetromeo: Race we’re in band you could, you know, just lean over and talk to me_

_higginzzz: no that’s too obvious_

_higginzzz: u know what this is about_

_russetromeo: unfortunately, I do_

_higginzzz: did u see his shirt today_

_higginzzz: i think it’s made out of stardust_

_russetromeo: god you become a poet when you’re lovestruck_

_higginzzz: ““““lovestruck””””_

_russetromeo: don’t deny it_

_higginzzz: fuck u_

-

Jack appears from the darkness of backstage after rehearsal and says, “I hear you like writing space metaphors about people you’re in love with.”

Race takes a very deep breath in through his nose and contemplates quietly murdering Romeo before the day is over. “Is this a surprise to you?”

“Well, not really.” Jack looks thoughtful. “I thought you were more of a _talk for hours about his eyes_ kind of guy.”

“You think I haven’t been doing that too?”

“Hey, hey,” Jack puts up his hands non-threateningly. “I was just suggesting that you’re growing into these big-boy space metaphors. Maybe you should, you know, say them in a place where star-eyed boys can actually hear you.”

Race snorts. “Sure. Right after I do the naked chicken dance in front of the counselors.”

Charlie chooses that moment to approach. “What the fuck did I just hear.”

“Race is gonna streak for our counselors so he can gather the courage to tell our favourite trumpet that his eyes are pretty,” Jack says. “Understandable, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely.” Charlie nods like it’s the best piece of wisdom he’s ever heard.

“I hate you both.”

Jack nudges Race lightly enough that it’s not quite considered a punch. “You’ve gotten used to it.”

 

They pass the security man on their way to lunch and wave. The security man looks delighted to see them.

 

They get to lunch later than usual, and when they enter the cafeteria it’s to the sound of thirteen saxophones and _Let it Go._ It’s pizza day, which kind of sucks- cafeteria pizza is famously soggy- but Race reasons that it’s because tonight is Banquet Night, and the food is always good on Banquet Night.

Charlie is quietly singing along as he traces a path towards their usual table. The saxophones finish with a flourish, holding onto their last note for longer than necessary, and then cut off to massive applause. Race spies Michael in the middle and waves. Michael grins at him.

“That was cool,” Jack says, putting Charlie’s lunch tray down with a thump. “Sometimes I wish I played an instrument with a large turnout.”

“Aren’t there, like, four ‘bones in the intermediate band?”

Jack waves his hand. “They don’t count. They’re good, don’t get me wrong, but we’re not bros, you know?”

Charlie takes a bite of pizza and grimaces slightly. “We should make a horn-flute-trombone trio. The Trio of Brios.”

“The Three Ami-bros,” says Race. “Coming soon to a cafeteria near you.”

Jack makes an _I mean, I guess_ face. “I’m sure we could think of something better.”

“Try me, cowboy,” Race shoots back.

Just then, Romeo enters, drops his tray down, and sighs. “Racetrack, I have no idea how you’re so fucking good at everything.”

“Do we know the same man?” Jack asks, then winks when he receives Race’s Look. “Kidding. You know I adore you.”

“Adore is a very strong word,” says Race, unimpressed.

Romeo interjects, showing no interest in the banter between friends, “Donna gave me a warm-up and said, _oh, your first horn got this in seconds, it should be easy for you._ It was fucking hard! You can’t graduate. I’m not cut out to play first next year.”

Race cuts away from slapping Jack in the arm. “Oh, shit, she gave you the Juno exercises? _God,_ those took me months to figure out.”

Romeo stares at him, puts the pieces together. “Oh, you motherfucker.”

“Our thoughts exactly,” supplies Charlie, ignoring the second Look.

Race smiles. “It’s all part of my charm. Seriously, though- I’m probably not qualified for first either. It’s called convincingly bullshitting my way through life.”

“And knowing the pieces already,” Romeo grumbles.

“Listen, that was-”

“If you say _that was just one time_ I will skin you alive and freeze your organs to use as ice packs for my sad, sad mouth.”

Race sticks out his tongue. Romeo shakes his head. “I tell ya, one day I’m just gonna chop it right off.”

The conversation shifts fluidly from frozen organs to goblins and sunflowers. True to tradition, Juniper breathes into the announcement microphone just as Jack is attempting to prove the existence of dirt goblins, and they all spin around to listen.

“Most of you look snazzy already,” says Juniper. She scans the cafeteria. “Actually, scratch that. You all look snazzy- Vic, is that a full suit? Crazy. Anyway, tonight is banquet night, so if you want to dress up, go wild. Don’t hold back. I won’t.”

“I feel personally attacked,” whispers Romeo in his paint-stained shirt.

Jack has chosen to instead focus on Juniper’s words. “Guys, it’s time for the 2018 Leather Pants Debacle.”

“Oh, shit,” Charlie says. “Those leather pants are a literal legend. Cryptid pants.”

Juniper continues: “And, of course, this afternoon we have our intermediate ensemble concert! Campers, are you ready?”

Most of the intermediate campers give cheers that vary in confidence.

“Faculty, are you ready?”

Race sits facing the faculty table and gets the perfect view of Tristan, the other low brass instructor, throwing a potato across the cafeteria. It lands neatly on the table closest to Juniper, right between the trays of two campers.

Juniper regards it with wide eyes. “I’m going to take that as a no. Too bad, my fine friends. It’s Friday. It’s happening.”

_“It’s happening,”_ whispers Charlie ominously. “Horror movie, anyone?”

“Joseph the Third is going to take over the world,” Jack says, “didn’t you get that memo? If we’re nice to him, he might just spare us.”

Race leans over, almost resting his back on Jack’s shoulder. “I feel it necessary to point out that we did trespass in his basement and start a dance party.”

“Semantics.”

-

_A selfie in the auditorium audience; Jack, Charlie, Race, and Romeo are in one row, Anna and her friend are behind them, and behind Anna sits Spot and his roommates, bending down to photobomb._

_Caption: LET’S GO LITTLE DUDES!!!!!!_

-

They’re waiting for the concert to start when Anna leans forward and asks, “Can I borrow the tennis ball?”

“No,” Race says as he hunches over and digs the tennis ball out of his bag, tossing it over his shoulder into Anna’s waiting hands. “Get your own.”

“Not all of us were clever enough to bring our balls to camp,” Anna says. Her friend spits on a laugh. Race knows he’s been introduced to this friend, has had multiple conversations with her, but he forgets her name and can’t bring himself to ask. He dubs her _Prue_ \- unsure where the name appeared from in his head.

Charlie shakes his head. “Horn players. _God.”_

“You’re outnumbered, bucko,” Race tells him.

Spot kicks the back of Anna’s chair, who, in turn, kicks the back of Race’s. He turns around to her turning around to face Spot, who says, “Can I use the ball?”

“Wait your turn,” Anna admonishes. She raises a questioning eyebrow at Race, who spends a few moments panicking before he says, “Sure. Give it back when you’re done, though.”

Spot makes a face. “Damn. There go my evil plans to steal it away so you’d never see it again.”

“Joke’s on you. I’ve got another one at home.”

_“Why,”_ Charlie asks, incredulity flattening his tone.

Race and Romeo make eye contact. “Maria,” they say simultaneously. Maria is their independent horn teacher, as well as the woman who usually attends camp as the revered horn faculty, and the tennis balls are a favourite of hers.

“You guys are crazy.”

The lights begin to dim and Juniper takes her place at the podium. “Welcome, welcome, welcome! Today we’re celebrating the work of the intermediate campers in their small ensembles, comprised of three to seven players. This week each camper has had the opportunity to work in a more intimate music setting, learning about leadership and communication within these sort of small ensembles.” She goes off into a spiel about the importance of well-rounded music mentorship- which is, in a way, redundant, because the majority of the audience is campers- and then explains how the afternoon will work. Race knows it because he’s lived it. The experience is ingrained into his very being.

“If I could get groups one through four to come up those stairs and circle around backstage, that would be lovely. Sit tight, parents and unwilling participant campers. The music will start very soon.”

Shuffling in the first two rows signifies the movement of intermediate campers.

“I bet you five bucks they’re going to be both so much better and so much worse than we expect,” whispers Jack.

Race scoffs. “No deal. They’re always like that.”

The first group comes on. “Fuck yeah, clarinets,” says Ryan. It’s two clarinets and a bassoon, and they play a movement of a classical piece with so many runs that Race has to take a breather. He thanks every deity known to man that despite harmonics and the worst pitching issues known to man, at least horns don’t have to deal with _that._

Charlie, on his other side, says, “I can feel you relishing in your entire existence right now. You know that what they’re playing is just scales, right?”

_“Fuck scales,”_ Race replies.

The afternoon goes on. One of the brass ensembles plays a very funky jazz arrangement that leaves everyone dancing in their seats. The concert ends with the percussionists- there are four of them, amazingly- and their final piece is electric, moving the crowd in a way that’s so specifically _band._

It means, there’s one week left of the best time of their lives, and it’s going to _count._

 

“God,” Jack says. He rubs his hands together. “I’m so ready. Banquet night is my favourite.”

“Banquet night,” Charlie says, in the tone of voice one may use when reading off a string of mildly important but ultimately uninteresting facts, “as you have said previously, will be mostly fun for you simply because it means that Plato will be serving you food.”

“You’re damn right.”

They’re all crammed into one dinner line- _all_ meaning the Three Amigos, Anna and not-Prue, and the entirety of Spot’s apartment. Race is watching the interaction- and occasional lack thereof- between Jack and Spot. They get along wonderfully.

Race resolves to ask Jack about everything. But not now, not today- today is their day of celebration. It’s one of their let-loose nights at their last year of camp and Race is determined to _not_ mess it up. Jack deserves better.

So he joins in on Charlie’s reasonably good rendition of _Back to Hogwarts._ They manage to stumble through most of it, covering up lyric slips with made-up words, and by the time the song ends they’ve gathered a crowd of fans and enough laughter to last a lifetime.

“This is exactly what camp is for,” says Crunch, handing each of them a cafeteria tray. “You guys are evidently having a good night?”

_“The best,”_ Jack says.

Crunch taps off with Stone, who carries Charlie’s tray as they move through the line. Plato and Freddi, attached at the hip as usual, offer the group food so simultaneously it’s kind of scary. “How long did it take you to rehearse that?” Jack asks.

“We never reveal our secrets,” Freddi and Plato say, still at the same time.

“Freaky,” Spot says to general agreement.

Tiki and Talon are waiting at the entrance to the cafeteria with matching trays of water, cold and hot, “For all your liquid needs,” they say, also simultaneously. This is a little more to be expected because they’re twins, but it’s eerie nonetheless.

“Thanks, bros,” Jack says, plucking a cup of hot water off of Tiki’s tray and a cup of cold water off of Talon’s. “You two are fantastic, as always.”

“Aw, Jack,” teases Stone. “Never knew you had it in ya. Where are you guys lookin’ to sit on this fine day?” He’s joined by Nebula and Kiwi, who each steal the rest of the group’s trays.

Miraculously, there’s a completely empty table in the corner that Spot points to. “All of us together, yeah?”

He looks directly at Race, whose stomach flutters again. It shouldn’t be a surprise anymore, but Race is still caught off-guard by the ease with which it settles. He thinks again about Spot’s brown eyes, his blue blazer and indigo shirt, his crazy socks and crazy smile and more-than-crazy kindness.

_I’m well and truly fucked,_ he tells himself.

And then he thinks about the sweetness, about the sock trade and the feeling like there should be _something,_ so close it’s like he could reach out and touch it, so close he could tug on the strings of fate and pull them together with the twitch of a finger. _Maybe it’s not such a bad thing._

Spot laughs at a joke that Romeo tells and Race’s world lights up in a way that seems so infinitely perfect.

-

_Jack, Charlie, Romeo, and Anna, crowded around one plate that is completely untouched. Caption: this is a competition, everybody. let’s see who can get the most out of their food._

-

_“Ready? Set?”_

_The four contestants stare intensely at the plate, forks at the ready._

_“Go!”_

_A camera shake, and then Charlie takes the edge of Jack’s chair and shoves it backwards so Jack can no longer reach the table. Romeo slides his fork under the sphere of mashed potatoes and picks up the entire thing in one try. Anna stabs half of it._

_In the background, Spot: “This is the most amusing thing I have ever witnessed.”_

_Michael: “I can’t believe we’ve never done this before.”_

_Jeremy: “That’s because you and Ryan are still in your sickening honeymoon stage. You wouldn’t compete, you’d sit there and say, oh, you can take the rest, I know you didn’t have your third post-lunch snack today like you usually do. Gross.”_

_Jack scoots forward and manages to spear the slab of roast beef with his fork, only to have it knocked off again by Romeo flailing to recover his potatoes. Charlie has been calmly eating the beans. He looks unperturbed by the chaos that sits around him._

-

_Charlie holds a fork triumphantly in the air, his other hand covering Jack’s face as he sits forlornly off to the side. Caption: we have our winner, folks! #actionhero_

-

Race almost forgets about rehearsal because it feels like it’s over the moment it starts. The only thing he knows is the excitement of the evening thrumming through his blood, the knowledge that tonight is going to be the kind of fun that no one can take away from him.

“You’re buzzing,” Romeo whispers at some point during practice. “That’s impressive.”

_“You’re_ impressive,” Race replies.

“Thanks?”

 

And then, as though that evening’s concert didn’t exist either, it’s suddenly time to hit the Box and spend the rest of the night singing too loudly and jumping too much. Jack grabs his hand as they’re leaving the auditorium and doesn’t let go until they’re at the Box, slipping off their shoes. The sound of _Call Me Maybe_ echoes into the hallway.

“Fuck yeah,” Jack says. “Let’s do this.”

So they do.

They’re joined quickly by Charlie, who is mostly lurking in the corner watching them with a wide grin, and Anna and Prue, the former of whom has also taken off her shoes and is sliding around in tights that are sure to get holes. Spot’s crew appears last, during _Dancing Queen,_ and it turns out they’ve been hunting in the counselors’ room because Michael is wearing a rainbow feather boa and Jeremy has acquired a fedora from someplace unknown.

“Nice to see you here,” Race shouts to Spot over the music.

“Likewise,” Spot grins. “It’s almost like it was meant to be.”

Jack bounds over. “Get a room,” he yells. “And by that I mean stay here and dance with me. We’re having a good time, gentlemen, get with it!”

Spot shrugs, displaying a look of _why the hell not,_ and starts to belt _Dancing Queen_ like his life depends on it.

-

_“You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life! Ooh, see that girl, watch her scream, she is the dancing queen!”_

_“I don’t think that’s how it goes!”_

-

_Jack and Romeo, having hijacked the phone, staring unimpressed as Sweet Caroline plays on in the background. “God. White people.”_

_Race hops by in the background, evidently having the time of his life. “You’re enjoying it too, shitheads.”_

-

During _You Make My Dreams Come True_ he makes direct eye contact with Spot and they sing the chorus at each other. Spot even points at him. Race accurately diagnoses himself with Gay Panic and immediately shuts down every part of his brain _except_ Gay Panic.

Because, you know, that’s how it works.

 

And then, before they know it, it’s time for _Don’t Stop Believin’,_ which is famously the final song of every camp dance that Race has ever been to. The piano intro feels like a new beginning, and suddenly Race’s heart swells and he grabs both of Spot’s hands in his own.

The room is alight with people, varying in age, background, life story- it’s the most beautiful amalgamation of people they’ve ever seen, all singing their hearts out. Race sees Anna and Prue with their arms around each other’s shoulders and Jack and Charlie headbanging violently and Michael and Ryan in the exact same position as himself and Spot.

Spot sings the guitar solo with so much enthusiasm that Race is overcome with a singular thought of _oh, holy fuck, I need a date._

Euphoria. That’s the only word he knows.

 

The night air is cool and not at all sobering on the walk back to the apartments. Jack and Charlie have taken the lead, screaming about feet down empty hallways and buzzing down the path through the field. Anna and Prue split off as soon as they hit grass because neither of them are wearing shoes, and grass is significantly nicer on the feet.

Race hasn’t let go of Spot’s hand yet and it’s one of the most exhilarating things he’s ever done. They’re singing a reprise of one of the camp songs they learned on Monday, along with a few other campers that Race has never really gotten the time to talk to. They’ve created their own little group on the trek from the arts building: The Group That Sings About Cows. Race loves it.

They stop at Spot’s dorm first because it’s the closest to the road. There are no visible lights on, so the rest of the crew may or may not already be there- but the pair stands on the doorstep, hands still within each other’s, waiting.

Waiting for what?

“See you tomorrow,” Spot says quietly, voice hoarse from use, a fond smile to match the softness of his eyes.

“You’d better goddamn hope so,” says Race. “Fuck, that was fun.”

“Sure was.”

Spot shifts on his feet, like he’s sitting on something he can’t quite say out loud. “Shit,” he says, “I’m really bad at talking-”

“It’s fine,” Race reassures. “Not all of us are eloquent and spritely in our word choices.”

A look worms itself onto Spot’s face that Race has never seen before. His eyes are wide, mouth partially open, like he’s mesmerised by something he’s discovered for the first time. “Seems like you are,” he manages to get out.

Race shrugs. “I’m actually freaking out right now, and the only reason I’m good at talking is because I’m actively forcing myself to do something, _anything_ other than pun all over the place.”

“I dunno, I think that would be pretty punny.” Spot’s smile shifts until it takes up his entire face, freckles and all- until it takes up the entire universe. “Race, you’re- you’re somethin’, I gotta say.”

“You too, Spotty boy.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Of course.” From up the street, they can hear hooting and hollering of Michael and Ryan and Jeremy, stumbling along like they’ve just returned from a club. Race squeezes Spot’s hands once and then lets go, mourning the warmth before it fully disappears.

Spot turns to let himself into the apartment.

Fuck it, Race thinks, not for the first time. He turns back around, prays he won’t fuck it up, throws forward his softest smile and says, “I think I’d like to love you, Spot.”

The smile he gets in return is enough to light up his entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for this chapter since I b e g a n holy cannoli guys!!! oh man oh man oh man!!
> 
> thanks for loving this so far! we're almost halfway through camp and halfway through the story, what a journey!!


	7. Spot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday. Concert day. Not the first, not the last, but probably the most eventful.
> 
> Or, Spot's turn to figure out his place in the world, band camp, and everything where Race is concerned.

In the morning, it’s not an alarm that wakes him, nor is it the vicious attack on their apartment door from the counselors. No- this morning, it’s a brilliant crash at 7:15 that is sure to wake up anyone still asleep, and it comes from the main floor.

“Whoo-hoo-hoo boy! You done fucked!”

“Don’t exploit my pain like this, loverboy.”

There’s a set of footsteps stomping up the stairs and then fists ramming on the door. “Spotty boy, get up, you’re gonna want to see this.”

“No!” someone on the main floor wails.

Spot, who is currently not so much awake as he is simply functioning, stuffs his head under his pillow and groans.

“Jeremy broke the fridge!”

“Good to know,” he shouts back. Downstairs, Michael is laughing so hard he starts coughing.

“Your loss,” Ryan warns.

Even before he says it, Spot knows they’ve won. “Christ. Fine. It better be worth it.”

“Oh,” Ryan chortles, “it is.”

Spot’s alarm is due to go off in five minutes, so he curses the world and rolls off the bed, pulling down his shirt from where it’s bunched around his stomach. He takes as much time as possible opening the door, and on the other side, Ryan is fully-dressed, fully awake, and far too chipper for Spot’s lethargic morning. “You know we were allowed to sleep in today, right?”

Ryan blinks a few times. “We may have missed that memo. Anyway! Come see!” He bounds back down the stairs.

The kitchen holds a sight of brilliance: Michael is filming Jeremy, who is holding a refrigerator shelf in each hand, staring at the fridge with utter confusion. The door handle is resting on the counter. Ryan is wheezing, loudly.

Jeremy looks at Spot. “Hey. I broke the fridge.”

“Evidently.”

“It’s not like I was trying!” Jeremy gestures with the shelves. “I was putting the juice back. So sue me.”

Ryan slips behind Jeremy’s flailing to get to Michael, sliding his arms around his waist. He rests his head on Michael’s shoulder. “What a way to start the morning, Jer. You’re doing fantastic.”

Jeremy stares at him. “Dipshit. I fifth-wheeled all night and this is the thanks I get?”

“You didn’t-” Spot begins to interject. He stops dead as the memory of the previous night’s events come flooding back into him. “Fuck.”

Michael and Ryan do an obnoxious chorus of “Yeah, boyyy,” complete with finger guns and wiggling eyebrows. “You got yourself a man!”

Spot opens his mouth to protest and stops. “Yeah,” he acquiesces. “I guess I did.” The picture of Race standing at the foot of their apartment steps saying words like love presents itself at the forefront of his mind. It feels like stars.

His expression must betray him, because Ryan starts fake-retching and Michael says, “Man, you’re _fucked.”_

“Yep,” Spot agrees. “Sure am.”

Jeremy whacks him in the arm with a plastic shelf. “Enough boy talk, you guys are making me sick. Please help me put this together before the counselors come knocking.”

 

Somewhere along the walk to breakfast, Spot stops in his tracks, feels his mouth go abruptly dry, and says, “It was a dream, wasn’t it.”

“Depends,” Jeremy says. “What’d you dream about last night?”

They did, in fact, manage to fix the fridge, but they’re late to breakfast and Ryan has been moaning about it for the past ten minutes. He shakes his head. “Less talk, more walk, boys.”

Spot stays glued to the path. “Fucking- _love?_ What kind of bullshit?”

“I think it happened,” says Michael, gesticulating with the hand that’s still intertwined with Ryan’s. “You were telling us last night-”

“Impossible,” Spot says. “It’s never this easy. Just watch, he’ll- he’ll disappear after camp, or maybe he’s just forgotten that he prefers girls, or- oh, god, what if all of this goes wrong before camp is over? What if this gets fucked and the rest of the week is unbearable? I have to look at him every single rehearsal. This is my last year, guys, I don’t think I can handle that.”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure he’s as gay as they come. Plus, that boy is, like, mush for you. I think that if you guys figure it out you’ll be golden until at least camp finishes. Be cool! Take a risk!”

Spot wheezes. “Risks are for brave people.”

 _“Dude,”_ Michael says again. “You’re braver than you give yourself credit for. Land the guy, Conlon. We all know you can.”

“Gah, he’s just too… _good._ What the fuck am I?”

“Our best friend, a lead trumpet, and a damn good man, and horny boy would be lucky to have you.” Ryan stares hard at Spot, as though he could get him to move by thought alone. “You’re also the guy who is currently making us even more late. Chop chop, slowpoke. We can continue this conversation with food in our bellies.”

It’s enough for Spot to tear his shoes away from the pavement and set them all back on the path. There’s more than one way to get to the cafeteria from the apartments; there’s a road curving around campus and a series of indoor shortcut hallways. Why they took the outdoor long route is a mystery.

Morning announcements are just underway when they step into the cafeteria. “Success, boys,” Ryan mutters under his breath. He picks up a floppy waffle between two fingers and folds it all into his mouth.

 

Saturday is Final Concert Number One. It’s the showcase of the intermediate campers, who attend only for the one week, featuring the senior band just briefly as a little teaser for the coming week. It’s the younger campers’ last morning here, so one of the music studios is packed full of luggage and the arts center is awash with black pants and white shirts.

None of Spot’s apartment is dressed in concert clothes yet. The senior band gets a massive break during the intermediate rehearsal, and knowledge of that led to the general consensus of _fuck it._

He searches for Race on the way to the arts center. Race, along with the rest of the french horns, carry a tradition of brushing their teeth during the walk through the buildings; it’s the one time Anna is allowed in the mens’ room and she revels in the opportunity. Her laughter carries on the bathroom echo.

He knows they’ll emerge soon. Another wave of panic washes over him, this time boosting him forward rather than bolting him to the floor.

_Fuck._

_Accept your fate as an anxious mess and move on._

_Talk to him._

_Don’t talk to him._

_Wait. Don’t wait. Go. Don’t go._

And none of it registers. He moves but doesn’t think, and he continues to not think until well into warm-ups.

 

Martin decides halfway through that they’re sufficiently ready for the day- since there’ll be considerably less playing- and elects to lower the lights and do some meditation.

First, he starts with some basic questions: how the week progressed, what they learned, how they grew. All to be answered inwardly, as a reflection of the soul, which is all well and good until Martin asks: “What’s holding you back from getting what you want?”

Spot knows he means it in terms of goals, musical and otherwise, and maybe Race is a goal in his own sense- but Race can’t be a goal. He’s a _person._ Maybe a relationship can be a goal. Spot observes a whole fuckton of insecurities holding him back.

They’re in high school. Spot doesn’t even remember if they live in the same _city._ Statistics are against them twofold, and that thought is not promising in the slightest.

But, _god,_ if Race was being legitimate, if he really _does_ want to pursue something…

Martin flicks the lights back on. Spot probably missed the warning so now he’s got spots- _ha_ \- on the back of his eyelids, and it’s completely distracting him from everything he’s been thinking about.

“Nine fifteen,” Martin says. “Time to hop. Good luck today, everybody. It’s been a pleasure working with you all.” He’s speaking mostly to the intermediate trumpets. Spot picks up his trumpet case and tries not to think about what his own goodbyes will feel like.

 

Medda is jovial as she takes her place at the podium. “Good morning, lovelies!” she shouts. “I hope we’re all feeling good about today.”

The pieces they’re playing are easy enough, not too much of a headache, and they’ve been working enough to have a sense of confidence. With only an hour of rehearsal, Medda takes them through a series of balance exercises and then a straight run-through. “Fantastic,” she grins at the end. “Horns, measure thirty-eight- can I hear that quickly?”

Race lifts the bell of his horn and Spot swears it’s intentionally pointed at him. His part soars above the others in a way that kind of hurts Spot’s heart. Nicely.

Louisa, the second trumpet, taps on Spot’s stand to get his attention. “You look like you’re having an aneurysm.”

“I’m fine,” Spot says, waving a hand. “Just really gay.”

Louisa nods sympathetically. “Cool. Listen, that part at twenty-two, I’m having real trouble getting up there today. You think you could bring it out to compensate just in case I can’t hit it this afternoon?”

Spot is thankful that his own issue isn’t pressed. They go back to music easily, like nothing was ever wrong. Race’s earnest eyes remain stubbornly at the back of his mind.

 

Jack and Charlie barrel past him right after the break begins, proclaiming an emergency in the form of _Race_ didn’t wave to the guy, whatever that’s supposed to mean- but Spot guesses that if it means Race is off waving to the guy, he’ll have more time to think.

Not that he really wants to be thinking.

He finds himself wandering through the courtyard and doesn’t blink when Jeremy falls into place beside him. “Hey,” he says casually. “Where we goin’?”

Spot shrugs noncommittally. “I was just going.”

“Right, well.” Jeremy, bless his soul, catches on immediately. “Do you ever wonder what else is here? Like, we know the arts center and all the practice rooms and all that stuff, and we know the cafeteria and the gym. What else is there? What’s above the gym?”

It’s the perfect distraction. “I know there’s a library,” Spot says, and a grin stretches across Jeremy’s face.

“Let’s go find it.”

They walk past the courtyard and through the hallway that connects to the Forum, then back outside again. It’s the middle of summer and the air is thick with a dry heat that could burn a pile of kindling. It’s only supposed to get worse- it’s just past ten thirty, and the sun isn’t even at its crux yet- so the wish to stay inside is rather desperate. Spot and Jeremy are the only ones outside and it’s weirdly peaceful.

“Want to talk about it?” offers Jeremy.

“Not really,” Spot shrugs. “Inner turmoil, nothing else.” _I’d like to love you_ plays over in his head like a broken cassette tape. He loves it, wants it, even- but the what ifs are driving him crazy.

They pass a set of concrete arches that look like they’re some sort of art installation. Jeremy’s mouth drops open. “I’m gonna go through them. I’ve gotta go through them. Portal to another world, yeah?” He runs off. Spot digs out his phone.

-

_There are no shadows. It’s just Jeremy, standing between matching concrete pillars with his arms spread wide, back to the camera._

_Save to folder: End of the World_

-

One library, six thousand offices, four vending machines, and two Disapproving Adult Stares later, Spot and Jeremy resurface in the arts center and run directly into Race’s squad of men.

“Hola, men,” Jack says. “Life?”

Jeremy blinks at him. “What?”

“How is everyone?” asks Charlie kindly. “Jack’s just being an asshole.”

“I object to that,” Jack says.

Jeremy shrugs casually. “We went exploring. Got a few disapproving glares from some real hardworking adults, as one does.” His eyes dart around the area. “Where’s the horn?”

“Taking a shit,” Jack says bluntly. Charlie whacks him in the arm. “What? I’m being serious.”

“Excellent,” says Jeremy. Jack shoots him a pair of half-hearted finger guns.

Race approaches just then, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Damn bathroom’s out of paper towels, I-” he stops, noticing Spot and Jeremy. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Spot says. “Life?”

Race nods. “Life.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ what that interaction is supposed to look like,” says Jeremy, and he returns Jack’s finger guns with gusto. Jack jumps on the spot, excited.

Spot is kind of just watching Race- which is kind of creepy, but he can’t stop- because Race is looking at the interaction between Jeremy and Jack with fondness, and his fond look is in turn melting Spot’s heart. He’s sure that if Race turned that attention to him, he’d melt right into the floor.

 _He didn’t mean it,_ says the rogue voice at the back of his mind.

_Shut up._

Spot tries for a smile. “I- we, uh- did you know that there are three vending machines selling the exact same thing down one hallway in the trades building?”

Race’s face falls, but just slightly- barely noticeable, but Spot sees the moment his smile dips and some of the wonder bleeds out of his eyes. “That’s pretty weird,” he agrees. Nothing is different about his voice.

 _You done fucked,_ the rogue voice says again. It sounds a bit like Michael, the way he proclaimed it to the world when Jeremy broke the fridge. Spot pushes it away as far as possible- there’s no way he’s allowing the voice to become one of his best friends.

Still, all he wants to do is lift Race back into the easy expression he knew, so he says, “Want me to show you?”

“I’d love that!” Race says.

“Actually,” Charlie interrupts, “we need to get home and change. You didn’t bring your concert clothes with you.”

Race swings his bag off his shoulder. “Yes I did, they’re in-” he digs around a bit. “Oh, fuck.” He turns apologetically to Spot. “Rain check?”

“Of course,” Spot says. “Anytime.”

Race looks grateful, so much so that if Spot tries he can imagine the various pieces of happiness falling back into place. Maybe, if he tries just a little bit more, he can keep that happiness around.

 _If you stop doubting yourself,_ a new voice says. This one sounds suspiciously like Jeremy.

“God, okay,” Jack says.

Spot shakes himself back to the present to find that the voice in his head is actually Jeremy out loud, coaching Jack through attempting to leap across a span of ten floor bricks.

“God,” Race says. “A bunch of idiots, our men.”

Spot tips a smile at him. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And for a little bit, it’s like nothing ever changed.

 

It’s not that Spot has been dreading lunch, per se, but he knows that the minute the counselors whip out the annual Barry Manilow, the cafeteria is going to flood with tears. It’s a camp tradition to play _Can’t Smile Without You_ on the last mealtime of the week, and everyone who is aging out of the camp is reduced to a puddle on the floor. Seeing as it’s the intermediate band leaving this week, most of them will be back as seniors, but Spot also knows that once he starts thinking about next week he won’t be able to stop.

It also doesn’t help that he catches a tear slipping down Michael’s face before he hides it. “Fuck, listen,” Michael says.

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Spot tells him. “I’m getting there, too.”

Ryan appears two seconds later. “Boys,” he announces, “time for my bi-annual sob in the camp cafeteria.”

“We’re all shit at being men,” Michael says. He sniffs, and Ryan grabs his hand.

Spot looks at Race and his crew, a few tables down, and each of them are grinning at the way all the intermediate campers are getting ready to say goodbye. “We’re not shit at being men,” he says. “We’re the ones who know how to do it properly.”

“Fuck toxic masculinity,” Ryan agrees.

-

_Ryan and Michael are sitting facing each other, swaying to the music, lost- Ryan is singing, quietly._

_Save to folder: for when there’s no love left_

-

“Fuck, fuck, it’s laundry day, did either of you guys bring stuff for laundry because I sure as hell didn’t.”

“I’ve got change, but no soap.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got soap but no change.”

“Is anyone going out tonight? What if we miss the laundry window?”

_“Fuck.”_

 

Before they know it, it’s concert time.

As the senior band showcase, they’re the first onstage, so they miss the hectic go-abouts of the intermediate band and their families as they pack into the arts center. In the green room, two kids have switched mouthpieces- a flute and Race’s second horn- and Race is with them. Happy.

Ryan toots his clarinet into Spot’s ear. “What’s up, loser?”

“Gay,” Spot replies. He blows a puff of air into his trumpet, not enough to make a sound. “You ready?”

“I was _born_ ready,” Ryan says.

They warm up in the green room and make their way to the stage.

 

The performance is near-perfect.

 

The intermediate campers are fantastic, as they always are- it’s camp, it’s supposed to be good, it’s full of children willing to spend over five hours a day working towards this two-hour afternoon. Afterwards, the hallway is a tangle of goodbyes and _see you later_ s and come back next years. Michael screams about doing laundry, not for the first time.

They’ve got about an hour before dinner. Spot retreats back to their apartment as Ryan and Jeremy pool together laundry change and equipment, and the next portion of time passes in relative silence. They play cards on the kitchen table.

 

He doesn’t _mean_ to avoid Race for the entirety of the evening. It’s purely accidental, because Michael and Ryan drag him over to work in a group with another pair- a saxophone and a clarinet, magically- and they spend the next hour and a half in the midst of an arts center scavenger hunt. They’re spread out all over campus, finding puzzle pieces hidden in between couch cushions and behind open doors. At one point, their group passes Race’s crew- the three of them, plus Anna, Prue, and their mysterious roommate- and Race is holding his phone up as Jack carries Charlie in a piggyback through the hallway.

Jeremy lingers near Spot’s side after that. Spot knows he’s offering potential distraction if need be, but he’s still trying to deal with the feeling in his stomach that is an unhelpful combination of apprehension and fondness.

They catch up with the group. Ryan is hanging off of Michael’s shoulders- which is hilarious, considering Ryan is half a foot taller than Michael- and Jo and Benji are attempting the same thing but utterly failing. Their puzzle pieces are off on the side, and Spot scoops them up before any other teams can covertly swipe them.

“We’re not trying that,” Jeremy says, before Spot gets the chance to say the same thing. “It looks like a couples-only thing, anyway.”

“God, _straight people,”_ Ryan says. Jeremy laughs.

Benji falls to the floor for the third time. They’re standing beside the booths in the Forum, and while teams are passing them on their way to the cafeteria or the arts center, they’ve elected to stay and spend their evening having a good time.

They are. _They are._

“Yo, Spotty!” Michael’s voice shakes him out of his reverie. “Join our pyramid!”

Michael is balanced on top of Ryan and Jo, and next to him is Benji, on top of Jo and Jeremy. “Is this safe?” asks Spot as he slips off his shoes.

“Who cares?”

Spot sets his phone on a timer and leans it up against one shoe, then attempts to scramble on top of Michael and Benji.

-

_Perfectly timed, the picture shows a three-stage panic pyramid: Spot, in the midst of falling, the moment of realization of the middle two, and unassuming giddy excitement that paints the faces of the three on the bottom._

_Save to folder: let’s be dumb_

-

That night’s faculty concert is actually the counselor concert, and the audience is sparse without the mass of intermediate campers. Some of the senior campers are away for dinner as well, leaving those who are still left to enjoy the performances put on by their fearless leaders.

“I’m not crying, you are,” whispers Michael after Scratch, a patented theatre man, reads a spoken-word piece. _“Fuck.”_

 

And then it’s the end of the day.

“Well, boys,” Ryan says, lounging across two of the kitchen table chairs, “I’d say that was a successful concert.”

Jeremy, holding onto a glass of juice in one hand and definitely not the still-broken refrigerator handle in the other, nods. “We’re a pretty solid group of kids, aren’t we?”

“I would love if you guys moved the snare to somewhere other than right next to my ear,” Spot says.

“No go,” says Jeremy. “I live to watch you suffer. That’s my reason for getting up in the morning.”

“Dark.”

Jeremy stares him directly in the eye and drinks the entire glass of juice all at once.

 

They go to bed surprisingly early after nighttime check-in. Michael and Ryan retreat to their respective rooms- although Spot knows that within ten minutes, he’ll hear the creak of the hallway floor as one of them joins the other- and Jeremy nearly passes out on the couch before dragging himself away to his own bedroom.

It’s been an exhausting day, apparently. In more ways than one.

Sleep doesn’t come for Spot. He feels the tiredness all through his bones, the way his shoulders weigh him down, but the bed isn’t calling to him. Instead, he sits on the chair in his room, which rocks a little too much, and lets the breeze from the open window play over him. One curtain is open, letting in just enough light to see by.

His phone lights up at eleven thirty. It’s finished charging. Spot has been rocking in the chair for nearly an hour.

Something hard hits his window.

Spot glances at it, expecting to see a particularly large moth or something of the sort, but there’s nothing there.

“Spot!”

It’s a harried whisper, like someone who doesn’t want to be caught. Spot blinks, thinking for a moment that it’s either one of his roommates or the night finally catching up with him.

Something else hits his window. He’s looking at it this time, so he can sort of see the rock that flies up and knocks against the glass.

_Oh._

Still sluggish from the stagnancy of the darkness, Spot heaves himself to his feet, adjusts his shirt, and quietly opens the door to his bedroom. One week hasn’t been long enough to learn where all the floor creaks are, so every step he takes is punctuated by the loud groan of old wood. Not that it matters, though; everyone else in the apartment is sure to be asleep.

The front porch wood is cold against his bare feet. The asphalt sidewalk hurts a little bit, and stray stones dig into the soles of his foot, and the grass is only marginally better.

But standing behind the house is Race, wearing plaid pyjama pants and an oversized t-shirt with a unicorn on the front, holding another pebble contemplatively in his hands.

“Hey,” Spot calls out quietly.

Race startles. “Hey,” he says, dropping the pebble.

They stand for a moment, unsure of where to go next.

“Nice aim.”

“Thanks.”

Spot looks at the house, with its off-white siding that looks gray in the moonlight, and the road behind them that’s lit at both ends but not in the middle, where they are. He ignores the feeling of drying weeds against his bare legs as he sits against the outside wall of the house, and Race follows suit.

“You know when you have one of those dumb ideas that just sticks in your head and you can’t get it out? And it’s plaguing you, so much you can’t sleep, and eventually you know that if you want anything in your life to progress, you’ve got to do it?” asks Race.

Spot is silent. It’s so uncharacteristically quiet outside, with the absence of so many campers. It’s almost peaceful- or it would be, if the noise coming from Spot’s heart and brain weren’t so deafening on their own.

“Yeah, well,” Race continues, taking his silence as a _no,_ “it kind of happened to me. Well, it happened twice. The first was just you, because I’m still trying to figure out a shit-ton of stuff and it was pretty much decided that I’d spend the night fretting instead of sleeping. But then I got it into my mind that I needed to talk to you, _bad,_ and, well- here we are.”

“Here we are,” Spot agrees.

Race chews on his lip. “Look, if I- if I overstepped a boundary, or- or creeped you out, please tell me. I don’t care if I’ve been reading everything wrong, I just want to know.”

It’s like static, drowning everything out until Spot can’t even decipher one thought from the next. His heart is beating at a steady pace of _Race Race Race Race_ and his brain is trying desperately to filter the insecurities from the words.

“I’m sorry,” Race says.

“No,” Spot says immediately, because if there’s one thing he can’t handle right now, it’s the idea that his static can cause everything to come crashing down. “It’s not- no. You’re okay. You’re all right.”

He can’t see Race’s face, he’s staring at the streetlight three apartments down, but the quiet _oh_ that Race lets out is good enough to kick his brain back into gear.

“I think- I think I’d like to try my hand at loving you, too, if that’s all right,” he says, parroting Race’s words right back to him. “I’m just shit at understanding myself.”

“That’s okay.”

“I spent the day split between wanting to talk to you and wanting to run away,” Spot continues, because now that the words are coming they’re _coming_ and there’s nothing he can do to stop them. “And I think I’ve finally figured out why I didn’t do either. There was always a possibility, for me, that you’d go about your day and realize that you had made a mistake, that you were too high on adrenaline to really think about what you wanted, and that you’d take it back the moment we were face-to-face again. I didn’t want that to happen. I took those dumb poetic words of yours and held onto them, and I knew that facing you again would mean one of two things: you’d make more, or you’d spit them right back into my face. I didn’t want to take that chance.”

“And then I started throwing rocks at you,” Race says. “Like that one Taylor Swift song.”

In the distance, past the small crop of trees bordering the campus, there’s a highway. The sound of cars rushing past can just be heard, almost as subtle as wind through the leaves.

 _“Of all the girls throwing rocks at your window, I’ll be the one waiting there even when it’s cold.”_ Race’s voice is perfect, even when it’s tired. “See? I’m basically Tay-Tay herself.”

“In your dreams, dumbass,” Spot says, elbowing him in the arm. He doesn’t pull back, though, and instead shifts his body so it rests mostly on Race, head on his shoulder. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Race says quietly. “More than.”

“You’re a good man, Race. I think I’d love to love you.”

He can hear the smile in Race’s voice as he says, “Stop stealing my words, Conlon. But I know I’ll love this too.”

There’s a lack of clouds in the sky. The stars are prominent. Spot watches them flicker, each one so different yet so similar in the distance. He remembers just barely overhearing Jack talking about space metaphors. The universe is too big to be contained within just a pile of words, he thinks.

With his head on Race’s shoulder, as Race hums quietly and slowly threads his fingers through Spot’s own, Spot finally feels ready to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have liftoff, dudes. 
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter! hope it's as good as it felt :')
> 
> also, if anyone's curious: the spoken-word that is mentioned exists and is on youtube! it's called 'a finger, two dots, then me' and is very, very good.


	8. Organic, Home-Grown Hooligans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Park Day, which is exactly what it sounds like: the campers take a field trip. Featuring lizards, gross romance, Go Fish, and sentient trees?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! sorry for the super long wait on this one, I actually spent the entirety of last month as stage manager for a school production and that absolutely ran me straight out of time to write. here we are, though- and hopefully things will pick up again!
> 
> (enjoy!)

It’s a pleasant surprise for Tiki and Talon to find that the entirety of apartment 8C is up and running when wake-up comes around. Race answers the door with a wide smile and bags under his eyes, sounding significantly more awake than he looks, and both Jack and Charlie are in the kitchen. Jack is hopped up on the counter, feet tapping against the lower cupboards.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Talon says. “It’s Park Day. I’m guessing we don’t need to tell you guys to dress for the hike.” He regards Jack’s combination of board shorts and a long-sleeved top. “Make sure you’re on time for breakfast so we don’t leave without you?”

“Done and done,” Race confirms. He’s grinning. “Have a lovely day, dudes.”

Tiki throws them a peace sign from where he’s lingering in the entrance hallway. Talon flips his hand up and mimics it without looking back. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to us this past week,” he jokes. “This isn’t the last you’ll see of us.”

Charlie wiggles his eyebrows. “Or is it?”

“New rule: no threatening the counselors.”

 

They don’t leave for breakfast right away, though; Jack collects everything they need and stuffs it all into one backpack, which Charlie jokingly calls his Mom-bag. Race floats around in a state of delirious exhilaration, partially because of his lack of sleep and partially because of what happened before.

Because last night, sitting against building 9A, Race gained a boyfriend. A boyfriend who ended up falling asleep on his shoulder, and Race doesn’t think his heart could have grown more than it did in the moment he realized what had happened. 

And sure, okay, maybe he had dropped a kiss on Spot’s forehead before waking him up ever-so-gently, maybe he had placed another one on his cheek before Spot disappeared back into his apartment. Maybe they’re working up to it, moving forward slowly but not impossibly so. The fact remains that tossing a pebble at Spot’s window was the best decision Race could have ever made, because it led to _this._

“You’re a mess,” Charlie informs him before they leave. “I don’t think you can even walk a straight line.”

“You know who’s not straight?” Jack says. “That boy. Ayooo.”

“Jack,” Race says, “you could probably scream that in my face and I wouldn’t care. Life is _good,_ my men. It’s blissful.”

Jack and Charlie exchange one of their telepathic glances. “You sound like you’re high, man, what the fuck?”

There’s another knock at their door. “It’s open!” Jack screams. He turns back to Race. “Explain.”  
Spot pokes his head around the entranceway. 

_“Oh,”_ Jack says.

Race is pretty sure he’s displaying major heart-eyes to the world, but he couldn’t care less. Spot moves into the living area in a beeline for Race, who seems to literally light up.

 _“Fucker,”_ Charlie accuses. “You’re the one who was in and out last night. I was ready to tie you down so I could get some sleep instead of worrying about the safety of everyone in this apartment. Might I remind you that I am the one closest to the front door?”

Jack whispers, “Kinky.” It kind of defeats the mood.

Race grins at him. “Yes, well, it was important to my emotional health. I promise.” He turns his smile to Spot, whose cheeks grow pink. “And now I have a boyfriend!”

“Finally,” Charlie mutters. 

“You _dick,”_ Jack says. “You should have woken me up _immediately._ I can’t believe you’d betray me like this. I thought we were friends who knocked Morse code on each other’s bedroom walls and told each other everything!”

Race holds up his hands placatingly. “Sorry, man, it was like, midnight. I figured you’d be asleep. God knows you need it sometimes.”

 _“Betrayal,”_ whispers Jack.

Spot bounces on the balls of his feet. “You guys set to go?”

“I know I am,” Race beams. 

Charlie and Jack stare at him, and then at each other. “Gross,” they agree. 

 

Breakfast is a sparse event. Without the intermediate campers and the faculty, the cafeteria seems almost ghostly empty. Spot and Race lead the command of one of the long tables near the back, large enough to fit their combined rooms plus any other people they’ve picked up over the course of the week. This morning’s waffles are so hard that Race nearly breaks his teeth, but he’s finally discovered the beauty that is blueberries and whipped cream, so it’s worth it if only he can eat the whipped cream off the top.

Spot laughs at him. “You have whipped cream on your nose.”

“Oh, fuck.” Race sticks his tongue out, intent on getting it without using his hands.

“That’s not working for ya, buddy.”

 _“Listen._ I have done this before, I swear to you. Jack, put your phone down.”

Jack snorts and very intentionally does not put the phone down. “Like I’d pass up an opportunity to embarrass you in front of your loyal Snapchat following? It’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

Somewhere further down the table, Romeo and Ryan are throwing broken pieces of rock-hard waffle at each other. There’s a streak of blueberry sauce down Romeo’s cheek and he is one hundred percent aware of it- _I’m letting it dry, guys, then it won’t be dumb and smear_ \- and Ryan has a lapful of waffle chunks.

“Good morning, leftovers!” Juniper shouts happily. She’s not using the microphone this morning and is instead standing, without shoes, on top of one of the unused tables. “I’m glad you’re all still here this weekend and that none of you got sent home prematurely. I hope all of you had a restful night last night?”

“Restful,” Race repeats. He nudges Spot, who goes pink. “Did you have a restful night?”

“Your shoulder is very comfortable,” Spot rebukes. “It’s not my fault you made me get up at eleven thirty.”

_“You weren’t asleep.”_

Juniper continues, “I proudly present you to today’s beautiful weather forecast. It’s park day, everyone!”

Someone in the back corner cheers. The rest of the cafeteria gives off more of a subdued ruffle of excitement, and Juniper laughs. “I feel you guys. It’s your day of rest, though. Halfway through! Right, so most of you know the plan already, but for those of you who don’t: we’re going to be spending the day at the park! After announcements, you’re all going to pick up a lunch from the cart-” she gestures to the other side of the cafeteria, where there’s a cart full to the brim with brown paper bags- “and make your way to the arts centre courtyard. We’re shipping out around ten thirty. Make sure you’ve got everything you need!”

Hopping off the table, Juniper lands on a chair and then the floor and doesn’t put her shoes back on. Her socks are bright pink and neon green. 

“You heard her, gals and gents and non-identifying,” Jack says, pushing himself out by bracing his feet on Race’s knees. “Let’s get a move-on. I, for one, would love a turkey sandwich, and those are the biggest sellers.”

Charlie, who had started moving even before Juniper stood on the table, approaches Jack with two paper bags in his hand. “Turkey for you,” he says. “Dumbass.”

“Love you too, Crutch.”

They join the surge of people out of the cafeteria and into the hallway beyond.

 

The sun is already bright the moment they step outside. Race privately thanks himself for choosing contact lenses over glasses as he whips out his sunglasses- Pride ones, from his mother, who threw them at him one day during a shopping trip- and sits on his backpack in the shade. Jack joins him after a few minutes, sliding down the brick wall, uncaring of the way the rough edges of the bricks catch on his shirt. 

“Ready?” Race asks him. “This year you don’t have any summer school exams to study for.”

“Thank the gods for that,” Jack says wearily. “I didn’t need the added stress of an exam in the middle of band camp as it was. This year I’ve got my sketchbook and plans to not do any math for the next month and a half.”

“Fuck math,” Race agrees.

A few feet away, Romeo is standing atop one of the two picnic tables in the courtyard, loudly reciting a soliloquy from Hamlet to the general public. Not very many people are truly paying attention- kids standing on tables reciting Shakespeare is strangely common- but those who are seem to be enraptured. 

“Man,” Jack says, after they watch Romeo wonder about Hecuba, “we should be filming this for Crutch. The Shakespeare nerd in him would freak.”

-

_“He would drown the stage with tears and cleave the general ear with horrid speech-”_

_“Look at that, I’m already crying. Hamlet, you’re doing your job.”_

_“What a nerd.”_

-

_Romeo is staring at the camera, holding his hands out with a pleading expression. Caption: good ol’ angsty ham wants off the table but no one’s helping him. cue soliloquy_

-

“I guarantee that by the end of this trip, your legs are going to be burnt to all hell. I will have no sympathy for you.”

Jack shrugs, kicks a rock, and stares at Race a little warily, like he’s going to harness the sun specifically to burn his legs. “That’s a bit unkind, best friend and all.”

They’re about five minutes into the walk, just past campus boundaries. Race and Jack are in the third-to-last quarter of the massive camper parade- not too slow, but not particularly fast either- and stopped at a stoplight while the other half of the parade is already across the street. Race waves at Spot, who is currently grouped with his roommates. 

Jack glances between the two of them. “Between us,” he says quietly, “you deserve this. I’m glad you finally got your shit together and talked to him.”

Race is about to respond when the light turns green. He shoots Jack a grateful smile.

 

The walk passes rather uneventfully after that. Somehow, Jack and Race make their way to the very front of the group, and- okay- they’re not necessarily trying to be fast. It’s just that Jack keeps running away whenever Race makes a particularly bad pun, and eventually they’ve caught up to Crunch and Nebula, who are leading the parade. 

“That’s a no-go, boys,” Nebula says when Jack starts to run again. “Looks like you’re stuck here.”

“Congratulations,” Race says. “No way to outrun your problems anymore.” 

“You suck,” Jack fires back.

Race makes a contemplative face. “Yeah, you’re not wrong.”

-

_Jack and Crunch, singing “A Whole New World” with intense harmonization. The camera bobs as they walk, and at the end, Jack turns toward the camera and starts moving at it, saying, “Race, you sneaky bas-”_

-

They approach and pass a dentist’s office with a massive sculpture of an elephant sitting on top of the building. Jack counts four Domino’s Pizzas and a conference center that is apparently having a reptile expo that coming week. “Race, we should go.”

“To the reptile expo?”

“Yeah! Who doesn’t love reptiles?”

There’s a clearing of the throat behind them, and Race whips around to find that Spot and his roommates have slowly and casually made their way to the front of the crowd. “Snakes give me the jeebs,” Spot offers.

“Sorry, Jack,” Race says with a lazy grin. “Looks like you’re outnumbered.”

“You love reptiles,” Jack points out.

Race makes a shh-shh-shh noise. “Nobody needs to know that yet.”

-

_Jack stands at the entrance to a tunnel; the gray concrete arch is cracked, and in the background, the greenery is blurry and airing on the edge of brown in some areas._

_Caption: a portal to another world, probably_

-

"God, I always forget how long this forest is," Michael says. He's wearing worn-out Vans that look like they have no sole, and for a moment Race sympathizes before he remembers that Michael does indeed own a pair of regular and properly conditioned running shoes. "I'd love to sit down and, you know, eat, but unfortunately we've still got- what is it? Ten minutes?"

"About fifteen," offers Nebula, who is still walking next to them. 

Michael sighs. "My only purpose in life is to make bad choices."

"What a mood."

Race stares at the trees as they start to envelop the group. The sound of the road gets quieter the further into the woods they travel until eventually it tapers off completely. Surrounded on all sides by the quiet shuffling of feet and the occasional laugher and cut-off snippets of conversations, Race wonders if anything else has ever been this endless.

They cross a bridge- a small footbridge, about two shoulder-widths wide, wooden- and stop briefly to admire the glittering stream that runs underneath it. They pass two dogs: one corgi, one basset hound, each walking pensively as their owners smile at the camper parade. "We should get one," Jack whispers to Race as the corgi toddles away. 

"What, next to our pet lizards in our nonexistent apartment?" 

"Exactly."

"I'd have figured you and Crutch would set up apartment rights together."

Jack blows through his lips in a sigh. "See, I would, but-"

Race laughs. "I'm telling him you've got doubts." He elbows Jack in the shoulder. "There goes your roommate. And I'm not moving in with you if we're going to be deeply in debt from paying the vet."

Ryan yells from behind them, "Having a dog can be expensive. Responsibility, boys!"

"Trust him," Michael adds. "His dog's name is Binky and he's been sick three times since January."

"Don't look at me like that. My sister named him after the ogre in Arthur."

"Ryan, he's not an ogre."

"What the fuck is he then?"

Ryan and Michael dissolve into another stimulating squabble over what exactly Binky is, and Spot takes purposefully long strides to escape and end up on Race's other side. Race immediately catches his hand.

Jack takes in a deep breath and says quietly, "Do I tell them that he's a bulldog?"

"Nah, let them burn it out for a little bit," Spot says. "They do this sometimes. It helps them communicate."

_“I can’t believe you’d betray me like this.”_

_“Your face is a pile of burnt toast.”_

Race looks at Spot with wide eyes. “Is this what we’re going to become?”

“Hopefully not,” Spot replies, just as Jack says, “Probably.”

 

The park is almost exactly as Race remembers it from previous years; the park sits atop a hill that’s wooded on one side, and the hill winds down into a grassy area with tall trees and picnic benches. Behind the field, there’s a utility building and a small concrete spot with a gazebo and long tables for various park functions.

“Home sweet home,” Jack says, spreading his arms, as they approach. “This is where I’m meant to be.”

“I’ve heard you say that about three different places, that are, may I point out, vastly different,” Race points out. “Now, I’m not saying that you’re a liar, but. You’re skating on thin ice, my friend.”

They gather around one of the picnic tables and Nebula stands on it, using Tiki’s shoulders for balance on the uneven surface. She shouts the typical rules- stay in the boundaries, don’t interrupt the park church service, set a good example and have fun- and then they’re unleashed upon the park. Michael grabs Ryan’s hand with an excited hoot and drags him off towards the swings.

Race looks at the remainder of his compatriots. “Cards?”

 

Charlie shows up a few minutes later, having been driven by Stone. He joins their game of Go Fish with minimal difficulty- because Jeremy is absolutely abysmal at Go Fish- and the five of them end up locked in a deep and supremely competitive battle of Finding The Last Seven (Jack), Not Letting Jack Have The Last Seven (Race), Asking For Random Numbers Because I Have No Pairs (Jeremy), Fucking With Jeremy (Spot), and Actually Winning (Charlie). 

It’s a good time.

Spot digs an apple out of his paper bag and bites into it after throwing his last card at Charlie. Jack stares at the apple, then stares at Race. “You gonna take his, too?”

“Do we have to bring that up? You’re embarrassing me in front of my boyfriend.”

Jack snorts. “I don’t think it’s possible to embarrass you more than you’ve embarrassed yourself. Might I remind you of the spinach?”

“Right,” Race says. He turns to Spot. “About that—what the fuck?”

A giant smile stretches across Spot’s face and he begins to bounce a little bit as he talks. “I dunno. I just wanted to mess with you.”

Jack does a dry spit-take and starts laughing. “You two are _meant_ for each other, holy crap,” he crows. “This is like, universes aligning right now.”

“Ya hear that? We deserve each other. Thanks, Jack,” says Spot dryly, bemused. 

-

_Charlie is holding the apple and staring at it with wide eyes, a Snapchat sticker crown on his head._

_Caption: blessed is the man who holds the apple, for he is the Go Fish king_

-

_“Nature walk! Nature walk! Nature walk!”_

_“Do what you want. I’m not moving.”_

_“Fuck you. Nature walk! Nature walk! Nature walk!”_

-

Scratch stands at the edge of the forest, regarding his small group of campers. “I’d like to start this walk with assuring you all that I honestly don’t know where we’re going. Usually Stone is the one who leads the walk, but Stone is currently holding a bag of ice against his foot and cannot physically take you guys on this precarious walk through the wilderness. You’re going to have to stick with me for today.”

“You’ll be fine,” assures one of the campers on the other side of the group. “It’s not like any of us remember where we go either.”

This is the first time Race has been on the nature walk, so regardless of where they go, it will be new to him. This is not the first time Spot has been on the nature walk, so he whispers, “I’ll make sure we get where we’re going.”

“You do that,” replies Race, equally quiet. He tangles his fingers in Spot’s as they begin the trek up the hill to the break in the ravine forest.

-

_“Do you ever wonder if trees are… alive?”_

_“Race, that might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”_

-

When Race steps on a branch and immediately apologizes- to the branch- Spot heaves a great sigh and says, “You can’t still be thinking about trees. We’ve gone through at least six other conversation topics.”

“Spotty, you have no proof that the trees _don’t_ become sentient when they’re alone. You’re not a tree, you can’t just- discover these things.”

“You’re suggesting that every single plant in the universe is secretly an Ent.” 

“And? I may not be wrong!”

“I’ve gotta say,” says the person in front of them, loudly- and she turns around to reveal herself as Anna, walking smoothly backwards- “this is the most thrilling conversation I have ever overheard in my entire life. Race, I’m totally on board.”

Race flashes her a grin. “Thanks, Anna.” He squeezes Spot’s hand. Spot looks utterly betrayed.

The entire train of campers comes to an abrupt halt. Standing at the front is Scratch, staring at their surroundings like he’s been abruptly transported to a completely different planet. 

“Left,” says one of the baritone saxophones. “That’s the way Stone usually goes.”

“I can’t believe you know where we are,” Scratch mutters. “All right, fine, everyone, we’re going left!”

So they continue, following the path that may or may not lead them back to the park. Somehow, Race thinks that it might be okay even if they do get lost.

 

“Hey,” Spot whispers, right before they enter the park again. “I guarantee Jack is bored out of his mind right now. Let’s be dumb and attack him."

“Always,” Race replies. So they tighten their holds on each others’ hands and begin to run down the hill.

Descending back upon the park like a pair of soldiers is ultimately the most fun that Race has ever had, wielding Spot’s hand like a sort of weapon as his backpack shakes and shudders on his shoulders. What’s even more fun is the way Jack and Jeremy, upon spotting Race and Spot charging, immediately swing to their feet and make direct beelines for their roommates.

Race snags a handful of dirt and bark quickly before him and Spot are absolutely tackled by the combined force of Jack and Jeremy (neither of which are particularly small) and manages to hold onto it through the onslaught of laugher that comes with being sat on. He shoves the dirt-hand in Jack’s general direction and ends up pouring most of it down Jack’s shirt.

Jack yelps and leaps to his feet, shaking out his shirt as Race scrambles away. Spot and Jeremy are locked in their own match of _stop sitting on me / make me._

“I will get you back,” Jack warns. He and Race share a moment of intense eye contact before Jack sprints away, back in the direction of the tables.

A rock flies through the air and hits Race solidly on the shoulder. Charlie sits triumphantly at the table they had played cards at, and while the cards are a little bit askew, they’re laid out in the configuration of _War._ How fitting.

“Crutch, your aim is astounding,” Race screams. Charlie gives him a massive thumbs-up.

From behind him, there’s another jubilant shout and he turns to see Spot, finally having switched places with Jeremy, sitting on Jeremy’s chest, breathing heavy. Jeremy stares at the sky, defeated.

“I did it,” Spot grins. “Accomplishment of the year.”

Race is about to respond when Spot’s eyes widen and Race feels the pat of dirt falling onto his head and down his neck. Jack cackles.

 

The walk back to campus seems significantly shorter than the walk to the park. Race still has dirt in his hair, he knows- but Jack has a smudge on his cheek that has yet to be discovered and that makes everything just a little bit more tolerable. 

“Last chance for the reptile expo,” Jack mentions as they pass the conference billboard again. “Any takers?”

Race looks longingly at Spot. “You’re sure you hate snakes?”

“Positive, babe,” Spot says. He makes a face.

“Babe? Did you just call me babe?”

“Never doing it again. Fuck. That tasted like dirt.”

“Oh, you want to taste dirt?” Jack says loudly. “Just get your best friend to shove some in your face. That’ll solve all your problems.”

Race high-fives Spot with his dirt-smudged hand. “Sickening,” Jack mutters. “Absolutely sickening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh happy happy! next up: some tears, some finger guns, some backstory?? hmm...
> 
> hope you enjoyed!! xx


	9. I Will Remember You (featuring Spot Conlon on acoustic guitar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't feel like a storm. It's more like a quiet rainfall, clouding over his chest and creating puddles in his stomach. In each puddle there's a memory reflected, and in time each of them will evaporate.  
> Until then, however, all that's important is that it lasts. No matter the memory, no matter the length. All it has to do is last. 
> 
> Alternatively, Spot and a guitar, Race and a horn, Jack and a not-quite-broken nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hi hello I'm back!! sorry for the wait, I blame it on one (1) singular detail. because, you know, that's how it works.

Sometimes Race and Anna will just stop what they’re doing and stare at each other.

There’s no point to it, just the idea that it confuses the hell out of the people around them (namely Jack, and Anna’s Still Unnamed Third Roommate) and is a lot of fun just for the sake of having fun. It’s the expression of _what the hell_ personified, sent to each other, received equally. Race loves doing it.

He doesn’t love when he taps on Anna’s shoulder in the hallway and stares at her for a solid five seconds before realizing he is not, in fact, staring at Anna, but rather a girl from the theatre camp that starts that day. Looking at her now, the differences between her and Anna are rather striking- but none of that seems to come to mind as Race ineloquently stutters out an apology.

He catches up to Jack on the stairs leading backstage to the auditorium. “Fuck me in both eyes at once,” he says by way of greeting.

“What did you do now?”

Race sighs. “I Anna’ed someone from the theatre camp. Who is definitely not Anna.”

“Racetrack, I told you that was going to backfire at some point.” Jack looks wholly disappointed. “It’s almost like you don’t take me seriously.”

“You still have dirt on your cheek,” Race points out.

Jack sputters for a moment, then rubs vigorously at the wrong cheek. “I hate you.”

 

It’s almost three fifteen. Race is fidgeting backstage with his horn, oiling almost obsessively until he spills half of the bottle on his jeans.

Sunday afternoon has been, and always will be, the designated Camper Recital time. It’s the time for the campers to showcase some individual work- for example, Romeo bounded up to him on Wednesday at break and shoved a piece of music at him, saying “We _have_ to play this on Sunday,” and that was that. There’s always a little bit of everything. Last year, someone did a clarinet concerto with a recorder.

“Ready?” Romeo asks. He’s cradling his horn like it’s a child, music tipping out of where he’s pressed it between his pinky and the keys. “Kiwi says we’re on third.”

Race caps his oil and nods. “Who’s in front of us?”

“I think Nori’s doing something bassoon-related but it’s guaranteed to be cool, and there are two tubas over there but they’re giggling so I’m a little bit worried.”

And then Spot wanders over. “You guys are playing?”

Somehow, even after they’ve talked and figured out where they stand, Race’s heart still flutters in his chest. He grins at his boyfriend and Spot smiles back, and they’re suspended in the moment until Romeo clears his throat and says, “Yes, yes we are.”

“Cool,” says Spot. “Me too.”

“Oh my god you are? Tell me what it is, you love me the best and therefore I should know,” Race says, bouncing where he sits.

Spot tilts his head and gives Race a cheeky smile. “Nah. You’ll see.”

“No! Fuck.” Race pouts as Spot ambles away, humming. He looks up at Romeo, who is watching Spot go with barely concealed laughter. “I really hate that man.”

“That’s why you ranted for three days about how pretty he is,” Romeo deadpans. “You hate him so much you want to kiss him?”

“Exactly!”

Romeo clicks his tongue at Race. “I think he’s on after us. You’ll get to see it from the audience, congratulations.”

 

Nori’s bassoon piece is the coolest thing they’ve ever heard.

The tubas don’t have their tubas; instead, one of them drags out two chairs, sits on one, and begins to drum on the other. Cue a strangely cohesive and surprisingly well-done rap about musicianship, and everyone- even the counselors backstage- are having fun.

“That was,” says Race, “the grooviest thing to ever walk this earth. I have no idea how we’re going to compete with that.” It’s their turn to go on, and Romeo- holding the sheet of music between curled lips- shakes his head.

“It’s not a competition,” Nebula says kindly. “You’re up, boys!”

The piece of music they’re playing is a peculiar one. It’s one page of single-staff music, no clef, no key signature. Race stands on one end of it. Romeo stands on the other.

“The concept,” Romeo explains to the audience, “is that my good companion Race will be playing from here-” he taps the end of the sheet closest to him- “to the bottom. I will be playing from here-” he then taps the end closest to Race- “to my version of the bottom. Lo and behold, it’ll make a cool song. I think. This is actually the first time we’ve played this at the same time.”

“Don’t say that, it’ll make us seem less cool,” Race says, to general laughter. “Ready?”

“Here goes,” says Romeo. He counts them off.

 

They don’t play it _badly._ That’s the important part. In fact, it actually goes quite well, aside from Race completely skipping a line by accident and causing some crunchy notes until finally noticing the problem. It’s the thought that counts, though- Race has adopted the mindset of _fuck it,_ seeing as it’s his graduate year, and it’s time to do anything and everything, no matter how badly.

Putting their horns away backstage, Race looks up and sees Spot sitting on a stool in the corner, tuning a guitar.

 _“Fuck,”_ he whispers emphatically to Romeo. “Guitar? What the fuck. Why is he so talented. My life is a lie, I’ll never live up to that level of greatness. Shit.”

“Relax,” Romeo replies, equally quiet. “Maybe he’s really bad at it.”

Spot plays a few chords. All sound excellent. Race is caught in a loop of _oh god oh fuck oh god oh fuck_ until they find their seats in the audience. Charlie gives them an excited thumbs-up.

“Good job, boys,” Jack says. “Very clever. Only a little bit of cranch. Overall, I’d say eight out of ten.”

Race punches him in the shoulder. “You’re only saying that because you didn’t prepare anything. Coward.”

Jack looks at him in earnest. “You have never been more correct.”

 

Spot comes onstage with his guitar and Race immediately feels his breath leave his body. “This is it,” he whispers to Jack. “I will no longer exist after this. You’ll have to tell my boyfriend that he murdered me.”

“Hey,” Spot addresses the crowd, more reserved than Race would have expected. “So, I managed to convince Kiwi to lend me her guitar with the promise that I wouldn’t break it, so there won’t be any big guitar-smashing happening on the stage today.”

“Thank you!” Kiwi shouts. She’s in the seats near the auditorium door.

“So, uh, there’s not too much of a story behind this, except- well, this is my last year at camp. I’ve been attending for a long time, guys. It’s kind of become my second home. Coming here every summer has been the highlight of my life up until now, and I’ve met so many amazing people and done so many wonderful things. I think I’ll just be sad to see it all go.” He picks out a chord on the guitar. “This is kind of an ode to camp in a weird way, I guess. It just seemed right.”

Spot takes a breath, closes his eyes, and starts to play. Then, after a few bars, he starts to sing.

 

_Goodbye, mama. Goodbye to you, too, Pa._  
_Little sister, you’ll have to wait a while to come along._  
_Goodbye to this house and all its memories-_  
_We just got too old to say we’re wrong._

 

The audience is rapt, there’s no doubt about it; it seems like even the ever-constant air conditioning has silenced in order to accommodate the swell of Spot’s voice over the strumming. It feels like Race has forgotten to breathe.

Spot keeps singing.

 

_Thanks for all you’ve done, it may sound hollow_  
_Thank you for all the good times that we’ve known_  
_But I must find my own road now to follow_  
_You’ll all be welcome in my home._

 

“Fuck,” Race rasps quietly. Or maybe he doesn’t say it at all for fear of disturbing the peace, the solemnity that’s converged over the auditorium like a settling blanket.

This is them, too- graduating, leaving behind the most memorable summers they’ve ever had. There’s nothing Race’s heart can do but crack at the reality.

_Tomorrow I’ll be in some other sunrise_  
_Maybe I’ll have someone at my side._  
_Mama, give your love back to your husband_  
_Father, you have taught me well. Goodbye._  
_Goodbye, mama. Goodbye to you, too, Pa._

 

Spot ends with a pair of final chords that ring over the silence. No one moves for a stretched moment, as though he’s frozen the entire world in time.

And Race can’t even applaud. He can’t move. There’s a hot wetness trailing down his cheeks and swollen nose, too much to control or hide.

Weeks spent throwing Jell-O across cafeteria tables and counting out rhythms until early hours of the morning and lying on creaky apartment stairs catching up on life and buying ice cream from the campus convenience store and creating a band, a _real_ one, a family, all throw themselves back into Race’s memory like he never has and never will know anything else. Spending a night sitting outside after curfew, dry grass digging into his back, Spot’s head on his shoulder. Gluing recycled sheet music to Charlie’s crutches. Socks. Tater tots. _I think I’d like to love you…_

Race sits numb for the remainder of the student recital and reminds himself that no good comes from reminiscing before it’s over.

 

There’s a distinct difference between the stunned auditorium seats and the buzzing crowd of new campers outside. Race is thrown off in a moment of emotional whiplash. Jack grabs his hand and drags him through the throng of teenagers until they reach a relatively clear wall space. “Stay here,” he says, “I just need to hit the washroom.”

So Race stands against the wall, running his fingers along the rough edges of the brick, mulling over the state of the world in his head.

“Hey,” says Spot, appearing at the corner of Race’s vision. “You guys did a really cool piece.”

“Thanks,” Race says, on autopilot. “You too.”

Spot smiles one of his rare, reserved smiles, almost wistful in its shape and expression. “You thought so?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever cried that much at once before.” Race reaches out a hand, letting Spot grab it so he can pull him in. “You never said anything about guitar.”

“You never asked,” Spot says. “You cried?”

“We’ve all got a piss-poor amount of time on this earth,” Race says in way of explanation. “You’re good at reminding people what they should be looking for.”

Spot squeezes his hand. Race opens his arm and tucks him in right next to his chest, leaning against the wall, breathing. Existing.

He feels mostly back to normal when Jack reappears.

 

Dinner is a more lighthearted occasion. Despite the mass of new people and the shuffling of settled tables, Race’s crew manages to snag a booth in the back corner. Michael, Ryan, and Jeremy sit along one end of the table, trapped in by Romeo, who seems to be having some sort of telephone argument with his mother. Jack, Race, and Spot sit along the other side, and Charlie has snagged a chair from the neighbouring table and sits on the end.

“I’m fine, mom,” Romeo says, shoving a forkful of peas into his mouth. “Don’t worry. _Mahal kita._ You too. Bye.” He puts his phone down and stares mournfully at his plate. “I swear, she’s even more mom-like when I’m away. _Did you change your bedsheets yet? Are you getting enough to eat? Do you need me to come down there?_ Mom, I’m fine. It’s not like this is my first time here.”

“You’re just so young,” Charlie says. “It be like that sometimes.”

“I’m sixteen.”

“See? Youngin,” says Jack, who has been eighteen for just under half a year. “What a small boy.”

Race stretches out as much as he can, hooking one arm around Jack’s shoulders and the other around Spot’s. “Lay off the poor kid, Jack, we want him to come back next year.”

“We do?” ask Jack and Romeo simultaneously.

Shrugging, Race tilts his head and surveys the table of dishes. Romeo is still picking at his chicken and Michael has abandoned his vegetarian-option-possibly-bean-salad in favor of leaning against Ryan and taking a small nap. Ryan notices Race’s wandering eyes and nudges Michael’s plate closer. _Thank you,_ Race mouths.

As he’s tensing, ready to pull his hand away from Spot to pick up his fork, Spot reaches up and laces their fingers together. Race relaxes again with a sigh.

“You good?” Spot asks quietly.

“Better,” Race says. “Still a little… wonky.”

“Wonky,” Spot repeats, amused.

“Shut up. This is your fault.”

“Why, because I know how to make an audience listen?”

Race laughs as Spot wiggles his eyebrows. “Unfortunately.”

-

_Selfie taken by Charlie, featuring the entire table. Romeo’s cheeks are full of food, Michael is dead to the world as he slumps on Ryan, Jeremy wears an expression of what the fuck, Jack is sticking his tongue out, and Race and Spot are barely paying attention to anything but each other._

_Caption: stolen phone = good pics._

-

_“ICEBREAKERS TWO POINT OH, LET’S GO LET’S GO LET’S GO!”_

_“Jack, wait, that door is usually locked-”_

-

“I can’t believe you almost broke your face running into a door,” Race says, sitting on the counter of the bathroom as Jack shoves yet another wad of toilet paper up his nose. “That’s one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done.”

“I can’t disagree,” says Jack. “Aw, shit, is there blood on my shirt?”

“You should be glad your nose isn’t broken.”

Jack sighs. “Nebula said it was fine. Besides, you know my impulse control is shit.”

“How are you going to make it as a real adult? You’re already eighteen, you know what comes next.”

“I’m very purposefully not thinking about adulthood,” says Jack. He examines his face in the mirror, wets his hand, and tries to wipe off some of the blood that’s spotted against his cheek. The hope is that there won’t be any big bruising- nor will there be any difficulty in playing for the next week- but that’s almost a stretch.

He tips his head back and leans against the counter, knocking his head against Race’s shoulder. “At least we’re missing icebreakers.”

“I’m still surprised they’ve let me stay, too,” Race says. “I thought they’d be like, _oh, Jack’s fine, come back and join the circle! Build community!_ Blah blah.”

“I may have made it out to be a little worse than it is,” says Jack. “Maybe that’s why?”

“You’re a wise man, Jack Kelly. Truly.”

“Thanks, Higgs.”

“If you call me Higgs again I will _end you.”_

 

They enter the circle post-nosebleed having missed every single one of the name games. Charlie is waiting for them, too- sitting at a picnic table next to a mingling group of campers- and he blows a breath through his lips and says, “Finally.”

“Bad stuff?”

“Nah,” Charlie says. “I just missed you.”

“That’s cheesy as fuck, Crutch,” says Jack. “What are we doing?”

“They’re playing the game with the knights and princesses,” explains Charlie, “and I’m doing the calling. _Knights!”_

Everyone in the mass scrambles to find a partner. There’s a small screech and then there’s Anna, standing in the middle of the kneeling crowd, pouting. She removes herself from the crowd without any further prompting and goes to stand next to the trio.

“You’re back,” she observes as the remaining campers mix up again. “How’s the nose?”

“Did Charlie tell everyone that I ran into a door?” Jack accuses.

Anna laughs. “No, I just saw it happen. I’m sorry to say it was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, Racey caught it on video.”

Race slips his phone out of his pocket and waggles it in the air. “I’ll text it to you.”

 _“Please,”_ says Anna.

 _“Damsels!”_ screams Charlie. Race drops his phone onto the grass and leaps into Jack’s arms- Jack, who is in no way prepared, but somehow manages to keep hold so Race doesn’t fall.

“You know you’re technically out, right,” Anna says. They’re joined by a boy from either theatre or jazz- but probably jazz, because there’s a very clear distinction between the jazz and the theatre kids- and Race tips his head back so he’s staring at Anna upside-down and he laughs.

“We were never in in the first place,” he says. “Besides, Jack will always catch me.”

“Say that again when I’m holding my trombone,” Jack retorts. “I guarantee it will take precedence over you every time.”

-

_Race is still in Jack’s arms. Jack gives the camera a deadpan stare and Race looks like his entire world is being fulfilled in this moment. Caption: Jack is a Big Stronk and i am his fair maiden_

-

Walking home in the dark, surrounded by people he’s loved for years and people he’s grown to love over the course of a week, Race swears he can hear the sound of an acoustic guitar on the wind.

Spot is next to him, humming. He tilts his gaze at Race, raises an eyebrow. “How are things?”

“Good,” Race says absently. “Just thinking.”

“Care to share?”

Race shakes his head. “Nothing important.”

Spot stops. Race does, too, and as soon as he does Spot lifts his hand and taps Race on the forehead, between the eyebrows with one finger. “Something’s wrong,” he says. “I can feel the vibes coming out of your brain.”

“I just- life, you know?” Race says. “What happens after this?”

“Whatever you want to happen,” says Spot. “It’s your life, after all.”

“Yeah.” They walk through the first set of doors from the courtyard into the building. Race waves at the security man. The security man waves back. “The future’s just so open ended, it’s hard to think about what’s coming up.”

There’s silence for a little while as they think. Race tries not to mull too hard over what might be, over the fact that this next week may be his last week to truly be a kid, over the idea of moving on. They’re taking the shortcut again, through the trades section of the campus. The rooms flanking them are dark and almost eerie in their stasis; pipes and pressure meters and gas lines all for practice fill the rooms like twisted mazes of an entirely different life.

“Life is weird,” Race finally concludes, because it feels like the only right thing to say.

“That it is.” Spot leaves a fat pause before he says, _“You’re_ weird.”

“Your face is weird,” says Race on instinct.

“Your life is weird.”

“Your universe is weird.”

They look at each other with matching expressions of _what the hell are we doing_ before dissolving into laughter. Suddenly, the trade rooms don’t seem so strange anymore. They’re just another placeholder on the walk home.

 

Spot keeps going past his apartment and Race doesn’t notice until they’re on the doorstep of the one he shares with Jack and Charlie. “You were supposed to split off,” he says.

“Can’t a boy walk his own man to his house?” Spot exaggerates a wink. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to Jack. All this Worldly Thinking made me realize something.”

Something inside of Race makes a little click. They’re going to either reconcile a past friendship or recover some old, weird memories, and he can’t decide whether he wants to be in the room with them or far, far away. It doesn’t matter, though; Spot is pushing past him into the apartment yelling for Jack and Race can’t bring himself to do anything but follow.

Jack appears at the top of the staircase. “What’s up, gentlemen?”

Spot motions him downstairs. “I have questions. Well, more like one long and convoluted question, but it can be split up into multiple questions so I have questions.”

Race shrugs when Jack shoots him a look of _sorry, what?_ and follows his best-friend-boyfriend pair into the living room. Under the guise of Definitely Not Eavesdropping, he goes to the kitchen instead, unnecessarily opening and shutting every single cabinet in search for the Oreos.

“What can I help you with?” Jack asks. He throws himself into the couch while Spot remains standing, wringing his hands.

“I-” Spot opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Do you remember, probably about ten years ago, a place across the road with the red trim and dripping roof?”

Jack blinks. Thinks. “Yeah, actually.”

“What about a neighbourhood kid with freckles and a weird obsession with dinosaurs?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That, uh. Okay. Jack, how the fuck do you not remember-”

“Our parents were friends,” Jack says slowly, completing the thought. “Spot, you’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are. I know who you are. I just didn’t know if you wanted that to be a thing.”

Spot lets out an audible breath. “I can’t believe you. Idiot. I’ve been spending the past week thinking you wanted to pretend we never knew each other, like it’s some big dark secret-”

“You should have just said something, I know we’re both different- hell, it’s been ten years- but hey, you’re gay and dating my best friend now-”

“And you’re finally who you wanted to be, thank God, I spent a long time worrying.”

Jack looks touched. “You did?”

“I bugged my mom for _weeks_ to find out who took you in after the fire. She kept telling me that it didn’t matter, some white family across town, blah blah. But hey, persistence works.” He flicks a pair of finger guns at Jack. “Is that creepy? It probably is.”

“Nah,” says Jack. “God knows I’ve done worse.”

Race slides back into the sitting area holding the entire package of Oreos. “This is the wackest thing that’s ever happened to me at band camp. My boyfriend and my best friend are secretly buds from elementary school? What kind of anime is this?”

“Sorry, Race,” Jack says, stealing an Oreo without looking. “I’m best-friend-divorcing you.”

“Damn. I knew it was gonna happen someday.”

The slam of counselor knocks pull them all back to the present. Charlie shuffles out of his bedroom to get the door, yelling, “Spot, you should probably teleport back to your own place right about now.”

“Cool,” says Spot. “Guess I’ll just hop out the window.”

The entrance hallway is really only big enough for one person at a time, maybe two, so Spot just stands in the sitting area until Freddi comes in and zeroes in on him. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I was just leaving,” Spot says, making no move to leave.

Freddi makes the _I’m watching you_ hand-eye motion. “We’re back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow, everyone,” he says. “Stone is off tomorrow so I’ll get you to campus, Charlie, and Jack, Nebula said to pass on the message of _screw boundaries_ and to go knock on her cabin if your nose gives you trouble.”

“I think we’ll be okay tonight,” Jack says. He pinches the bridge of his nose and winces. “As long as I don’t fall off my bed.”

“The beds are high,” Charlie agrees. “You should attach yourself to the bed somehow.”

Race raises his hand. “Can I volunteer to tape Jack to the wall?”

Freddi chooses that moment to interject: _“On that note,_ have a good night, gentlemen.” He turns on his heel and strides down the hallway. “Let your intruder exit the apartment and then don’t forget to lock your door!”

Spot, still standing, says, “I’m the intruder, aren’t I.”

Race swings an arm over his shoulder. “You’re my favourite intruder. You should probably go before he hits your place, though.”

“God,” says Jack. “I now feel the need to tease both of you. My brain is exploding.”

“Sorry,” says Spot, absolutely not sorry at all.

 

Race shuts the front door, locks it, bids good-night to Charlie, shuts off the entryway lights, and then finds Jack still sitting on the couch.

“Hey,” Jack says. Race sits down next to him, pulling his phone out of his pocket and throwing it on the cushion next to him. “So?”

“So?” Race repeats. “What’s on your mind, Jack?”

Jack seems to fold in on himself. “A lot.”

“Spot?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

Race tucks his feet under him and pulls Jack closer until he can rub his back. “Keep talking.”

“I don’t know. It’s been a weird sort of day. It’s weird to think that I’d be re-meeting someone I used to live across the street from at this obscure camp for music nerds and I’m re-meeting him when I finally know who I am and finally going places with my life and somehow things _aren’t_ blowing up in my face.”

“You’re doing a solid job at life, Jack. I think that’s worth something.”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “Thanks.”

“Bedtime?”

“Agreed.”

Race picks up his phone and finds Spot’s song. It plays on the way up the stairs, while he and Jack brush their teeth, past lights-out.

 

_Each of us must do the things that matter._  
_All of us must see what we can see-_  
_It was long ago, you must remember_  
_You were once as young and scared as me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is 'child's song' by tom rush and here's a link! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Dx6Zdx2AJ4  
> that song is also the only (and I truly mean only) reason why this chapter is late. I got stuck on trying to figure out a good thing for spot to sing and here we are, a month later, finally with some answers!
> 
> as always, let me know what you enjoyed! next up: sPiEs???


	10. Totally Spies! Live Action Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"We need your help, agents."_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> There's a few spies at camp. It's their job to figure out what's going wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for the wait but the 7k chapter makes up for it. (Alternatively, sorry it's so long??)

**Monday 07:30**

They’re met not with the wild barrage of knocks that usually come with wake-ups, but with a set of equally loud knocks that sound a bit like Morse code. Jack and Race, who learned Morse code in seventh grade so they could send each other messages, emerge from their bedrooms with the same words on their lips: “Need Help Now?”

Charlie opens the front door to their apartment and standing on the front step are Freddi and Talon, each wearing a trench coat in the thick heat. Freddi is wearing sunglasses and Talon has a fedora. They stare at Charlie for some time, enough time that Jack and Race eventually fill in behind him.

“Gentlemen,” Talon says. His voice is pitched low, almost growling. “We’ve got a situation.”

“Oh, good,” Jack says. “We’re ready to help.”

Talon and Freddi exchange a glance. “As you know, our faction of Concert Intelligence has been at odds with the faction of Theatrical and Jazz Intelligence for years. Last night, those of us at CI received a message that one of our fellow associates has been leaking information to TJI for the past few months. We need your help, agents.”

Freddi opens his jacket and extricates a manila envelope with a bright orange sticky note on the front. “Don’t show this to anyone but yourselves. Be safe, agents. Wear comfortable shoes today and be on time for breakfast. Any questions?” He hands the envelope to Charlie, who holds it gingerly.

At the lack of response, they nod and disappear with a swirl of their jackets, leaving the three amigos standing in the foyer of their apartment with an orange sticky-noted manila folder.

“Open it open it open it,” Jack says. “Now. Right now. I’ve never been more impatient in my entire life.”

Charlie hands it off to Race. “I’m tired and have no dexterity. You do it.” So Race slides a finger under the lip of the envelope and produces a sheet of paper. Something falls out with it, a smaller, jagged piece of paper that looks suspiciously like a puzzle piece.

Jack picks up the puzzle piece and reads aloud what it is: “IN. And a green stripe.”

“That’s IN-sane,” Race says. Jack punches him in the arm. “Alrighty, this sheet.”

He flips the sheet of paper over. It’s a set of instructions written in typewriter font, dated and timed as though it was printed out the same morning.

 

`08.06.2018 8B – JACK, RACE, CHARLIE`

`1. BENEATH ONE OF THE CAFETERIA TABLES IS A CRUCIAL PIECE OF INFORMATION. YOU MUST FIND IT BEFORE LUNCH ENDS. BE SUBTLE.`  
`2. FOLLOWING SECOND BREAK, PROCEED DIRECTLY TO THE FORUM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.`  
`3. IT IS NOT FREDDI.`  
`4. IT COULD BE JUNIPER.`  
`5. TAKE THIS FOLDER WITH YOU TODAY. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT MIGHT COME IN HANDY.`

 

“So,” Jack concludes. “This is exciting.”

Race stares at the paper for a little while longer. “We’re spies, guys. This is literally the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do for my entire life, and it’s actually happening. Bless band camp.”

“Will this be a mess? Probably,” says Jack. “Will I enjoy it? Definitely.” He yawns, rubs his eyes, and winces. “Oh, shit. Nose.”

Charlie immediately swoops in on him. “How is it?”

“Surprisingly okay. Just a little sore. Bruised?”

Humming, Charlie shrugs. “Not really. A little darker than usual, maybe.”

Jack grins. “The door gave me a tan.”

-

_The boys crowded into the foot-wide bathroom mirror, wearing all-black and sunglasses and looking like the world’s biggest douchebags._

_Caption: spies or dudebros? that’s for us to know and you to find out_

-

“You look like idiots,” Romeo says as soon as he spots them. “Absolute idiots and _my god you should have texted me, I could match.”_

“Break?” Race suggests. “Recruit as many people as possible and we can all look like massive dicks together. Really gets the whole secret thing going.” He stares around the cafeteria, shifting, suspicious. “Speaking of, did you get a- a thing?”

“A thing,” Romeo repeats.

“A thing.”

“If you’re talking about men in trench coats handing us strange objects, yes. I don’t think I’m authorized to tell you more.”

Beside Race, Jack lets out an ooh that just means that he’s been eavesdropping the entire time. Race elbows him in the ribs. _“Listen,”_ Jack says. “It’s kind of hard not to talk about Things.”

Which, sure, okay. Everyone looks kind of shifty. At one of the tables next to the window, there’s a pair of campers not even eating, just measuring up the cafeteria, searching for something… it’s a little unsettling. Each of the counselors are decked out in what could be justifiably passing 1930s spy gear- though they’ve ditched the coats, Talon is still wearing his fedora, and Nebula’s nestled so far into her hoodie she’s almost invisible.

“There’s a lot going on,” Race concludes succinctly. “You’re fair. I mean- that’s fair. You’re right. Both. All of the above.”

“Thanks, Racey,” says Jack, disregarding the scrambled fixing of the statement. “Personally, I wouldn’t refer to myself as fair, both in the physical sentiment of the word and the idea of justice, but you’re being nice.”

“Fuck you.”

Something hard and rather plastic slams down on Jack’s foot and he startles. “What the hell, Crutch?”

 _“Look,”_ Charlie hisses. “Under there.” He points at the booth opposite the room, between a pair of bickering theatre kids. Jack looks. He sees nothing.

“It sure is something,” Race says, following their gaze. “A table. What am I looking at, man?”

“It’s attached to the table,” Charlie says. “Think it’s what we’re supposed to find?”

Just then, one of the theatre kids reaches underneath and produces it, in plain view, to be a music folder they were holding against the table with their knee. Each of the trio immediately slump.

“Worth a shot,” Jack says. “Hey, Race, your boyfriend.”

Spot is sitting with his roommates at the adjoining table, having passed wordlessly, escaping Race’s notice. He’s wearing that Hawaiian-print shirt again, deep purple with bright yellow and orange flowers, and for all intents and purposes stands out like a sore thumb.

“Shit,” Race says. “I hate that shirt and love that shirt. I can’t believe I’d want to wear it.”

“Please,” Jack scoffs. “You’re so whipped for him that he could wear a fake turtleneck and you’d be suffering from lovesickness. And, like, not a _good_ fake turtleneck. The worst one you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”

As an afterthought, he adds, “What if he does own one? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him since I was eight. Holy fuck, we were friends.”

“You still are,” Race reminds him gently. “Just- a different kind of friends.”

“That makes it sound like you’re trying to hook us up. Stop that. I am very happy with being hitched to this man right here.” Jack thumps Charlie on the back and Charlie chokes on his pancake.

Straightening after the subsequent coughing fit, Charlie says, “Jack, what the _fuck.”_

“We’re soulmates, bro. Ultimate bro-mates.”

“One, if you ever say bro-mates again, I will soak your mouthpiece in Clorox. Two, we are absolutely soulmates, but _hitched_ either implies marriage or, you know, being together- and we are both very aware that neither of those are happening.”

Jack makes a face. “Does hitched mean that? I thought it just meant, y’know, existing together for a long time.”

“I mean, yes, but-”

“No buts,” Jack says. “No butts, either. We’re hitched for life, baby!”

Charlie gives a long-suffering sigh and looks at Race with a _this is what I have to deal with expression._ It’s broken the moment Jack stops paying attention and instead notices that the blueberries on his pancake have made a happy face. “Guys, look!”

They’re the three amigos. They have a good time.

-

_“Race?”_

_“Mmh.”_

_“Care to explain why you’re brushing your teeth outside?”_

_“Iff heeffeea oo hock nn hff.”_

_“Brilliant. Explorative. Innovative. This is what we want to hear from the up-and-coming youth. Thank you.”_

_“Hhuck oo.”_

-

“Also,” Charlie says, after warm-ups have happened and they’re reconnected backstage before rehearsal starts. “I am never being seen with you guys in the cafeteria again. You made absolute fools of yourselves and I wish I could have recorded it.”

“Hey, listen.” Jack holds his trombone between his knees and lifts his hands in a defensive posture. “I now know the names of most of the jazz kids. And Racey knows the theatre kids.”

“Not that I wanted to,” Race says, balancing his horn on the bell-fist. “But we had a very smart plan and executed it flawlessly.”

“Did you get the clue? No. Did you look like idiots trying to feel under every table you went to under the guise of introducing yourself to camp? Yes.”

Jack snorts. “Don’t question the methods of our madness, O Good Man.”

“Madness is right,” Charlie says. He hoots into his flute.

 

The pair of first altos that Race sits next to- Albert and Kate, both quickly becoming his friends, thank you very much- both stare at him when he sits down, unpacking everything he’s carrying in his arms with a sigh. “What?”

“Who do you think it is?” Kate asks immediately.

Race pauses in placing his water under the leg of his chair. “I have in no way thought about it,” he says carefully, in the tone of voice that means he definitely has thought about it and is just badly attempting to avoid the subject. “Were you guys warming up with Careless Whisper today? I heard you from down the hall.”

Albert sighs. “Blame the memes,” he says. “And by memes I mean Michael.”

-

_Picture of Charlie, across the cafeteria, waving. He seems to be having a pleasant time with a group of jazz kids._

-

_Picture of Jack, across the cafeteria, looking like he’d rather be eating lunch in the centre of a trash compactor than associate with the people at his table for longer than necessary._

-

_Selfie: Race, Romeo, and a gaggle of flutes that Race has never met before._

-

 _chat with JACK!!_  
_higginzzz: having fun cowboy_  
_JACK!!: I hate you_  
_higginzzz: this was ur idea_  
_JACK!!: remember I don’t have good ideas_  
_JACK!!: save me_  
_JACK!!: please_

_read at 11:35_

-

`1. BENEATH ONE OF THE CAFETERIA TABLES IS A CRUCIAL PIECE OF INFORMATION. YOU MUST FIND IT BEFORE LUNCH ENDS. BE SUBTLE.`

“Well, boys,” Jack says, at the end of lunch as they’re walking back to the arts building, “I’d say that was successful.” Out of his bag he produces a letter-sized envelope, folded around the edges, a single strip of tape still stuck to the corner.

Race laughs. “And you said you hated where you were.”

“I did!” The sincerity on Jack’s face only makes it funnier. “I found it as soon as I sat down, I didn’t need to spend the rest of my time fraternizing with the loud ones.”

“Jack,” Charlie says calmly. “You are one of the loud ones.”

“Impossible. Not true. That can’t be right. I’m the quietest person in the world.”

Race waves at the security man. The security man waves back.

 

Even the faculty seem to be in on the plotting. Martin looks positively suspicious throughout the entirety of their small ensemble- although that’s kind of how Martin exists on the regular- and he definitely drops something extra on the euphonium’s stand. Race doesn’t see what it is. He’s probably not supposed to know.

 

`2. FOLLOWING SECOND BREAK, PROCEED DIRECTLY TO THE FORUM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.`

Usually, after small ensembles, the counselors are shoving them out towards the courtyard, attempting to embrace the summer sunlight if only to talk about the event at play. This time, however, Nebula is sitting on the help desk almost yelling at people to get to their respective meeting areas.

Race catches Jack on the way to the Forum. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Jack answers. He shivers a little bit. “Excited?”

“Hell yes.” Race still has the manila folder with the instructions in his backpack and he is acutely aware of it as they walk down the skylit hallway.

There’s already a gathering of campers in the forum when they arrive; Race catches Spot’s eye, sees him standing with the rest of his apartment, and then Romeo and his own group. Opposite them in the area is Anna, not-Prue, and The Other One, along with Alto Sax Kate and her friend group. Interspersed are people that Race knows are in his band, but their faces are just as unknown as if they’d been strangers.

Kiwi stands on one of the tables and waves her arms for attention. “Good afternoon, agents! I hope we’re all up and ready to go on this fine day.” Met with a range of responses, she just giggles and continues: “Now, I know there’s a lot of us here, but what I need you guys to do is get into groups of-” she counts quickly- “eight…ish.”

She climbs off the table and joins Jack and Charlie on the sidelines. “You feeling up to this?” she asks. “We’ve got room at a couple of stations if you want to help out instead of running around.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Charlie says. “As long as we don’t take off at a dead sprint across the courtyard, I should be all right.”

Jack swings an arm around his shoulders. “If they start to sprint, I’ll trip ‘em.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“My pleasure.”

Race reappears with Spot, his roommates, and Alto Sax Albert in tow. “Our team, gentlemen.”

Jack sticks out his hand. “Alto sax, right?”

“Definitely,” says Albert. “You sit behind me, don’t you.”

“Bass trombone,” Jack says proudly. “Best in the section.”

 _“Only_ in the section, more like,” whispers Race. “Not that it matters to him.”

Kiwi, back on the table, waves her arms once more and whistles. “Is everyone in a group? Yes? Good! Everyone listening? Yes? Good! So, I’m sure you’ve all gotten the news by now: we’ve been compromised! One of Concert Band’s inside men has gone rogue and is feeding information to the Jazz and Theatre faction. It’s up to all of you to figure out who it is. And to do that, you’ll need these.” She produces a piece of paper, much like the one that had fallen out of their manila folder. “Clues. Spread out around campus are different stations, each with a different challenge. Complete the challenge, get a clue. You with me so far?”

Most of the groups nod. Race jumps onto the balls of his feet, hopping, ready to go. Spot sidles up to him. “Calm down, cowboy. We’re in no hurry.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re not excited.”

“Lies,” Spot whispers, and when Race looks at him there’s a grin growing across his face. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Depending on the station, there will be one to three groups allowed to participate at a time. There are eight stations. Good luck, agents! Be free!” With a final swoop of her hands, Kiwi leaps off the table and makes her way into the booths, a dimly lit portion of the Forum with tables surrounded by bar stools and booth benches.

Race’s team gathers into a circle. “Right, boys,” he says. “What are we thinking?”

“Kiwi’s close,” Charlie points out. “We can probably sit down.”

So they trek into the depths of the darkened booth area and approach Kiwi, sitting at one of the tables with a pair of massive encyclopaedias in front of her. Somehow, between standing on the table and here, she’s produced a fake moustache.

“Hello,” she says, deep and rather ominous. “Who sent you?”

The entirety of the team exchanges a glance. “The… concert band,” Michael says, completely unconvinced. “That sounds right, right?”

“Does it?” Kiwi says. She opens one of the encyclopaedias. Slotted between the cover and the front page is a piece of paper, one that has a lot of numbers but not much else. Sliding it across the table to the nearest hand- Ryan’s- she says, “Your message.”

Ryan picks up the paper and squints at it. “Twenty-seven, three, five, one hundred and twelve, seventeen, two- numbers. These are numbers. A lot of numbers.”

Jeremy swipes the paper from him. “They’re in bits, though. Twenty-seven-three-five. One hundred twelve-seventeen-two. Slots of three.”

“Alphabet?” offers Michael. “Wait, no. Unless we looped a lot.”

Carefully, Charlie reaches out and slides the encyclopaedia forward. “We need this, don’t we?” he says to Kiwi, who squints at him.

Then there’s silence for a while.

Jack slams his hand on the table. “PAGE CODE.”

“Page code? Jack, the fuck-”

“Page twenty seven,” Jack interrupts. “Line three. Word five. Yeah?”

There’s a chorus of agreement from the group. Charlie flips until he gets to page twenty-seven and scans the writing on the page until he finds: “Go.”

“Go,” Jeremy says, and Ryan writes it down. They continue in the same manner until they have the semi-coherent sentence of _Go to underneath the sit to one’s place._

It’s regarded with a vague form of disappointment. “I thought it would tell us something,” Michael says.

“What the fuck is a _sit to one’s place?”_ Spot asks. He notices Kiwi raising her eyebrows in a look of motherly discontent. “Sorry. What the _heck?”_

“Maybe we did it wrong,” Charlie says, already flipping through to double-check his work.

Somewhere close by, the sounds of another group- loud, uncoordinated footsteps- draw nearer. Jack straightens, looks around. “We’ve got company.”

Charlie shoves the encyclopedia away from him hurriedly with a small noise of triumph. “The _wait for one’s meal._ The tables next to the cafeteria.” The proclamation is met with excitement, if only just for having solved the puzzle, and quickly Ryan crumples the paper he’s been writing on and shoves it into his pocket.

“Thanks,” Charlie says to Kiwi, just as the next group pulls up. Kiwi nods at him.

 

In the music building courtyard, Scratch is leading another team in a NERF gun shoot-the-target activity. Shoot the targets, get a clue- or something along those lines.

As it turns out, Albert is a scarily good shot.

They exit said activity with a puzzle piece and a great amount of respect for the saxophone who single-handedly won it.

-

_“What. Does. This. Mean.” The camera zooms in and out wildly on a sticky note with a number sequence on it. “Math? Why did we choose math?”_

_“’Cause we’re band kids,” says Jeremy in the background. “All we know how to do is count.”_

_Michael snorts. “To six, maybe. And that’s stretching it.”_

_The numbers: 1 11 21 1211 111221_

-

_Wild commotion. Not much else. Someone is chanting Race’s name, someone else is cursing math with all he’s got._

-

”I can’t believe you got that so easily,” Jack says as they’re making their way down the hallway. “That was like, some freaky magic shit.”

“It’s called I Used To Be A Smart Kid,” says Race. “You know this. You were a part of those days.”

“Those days,” Jack sighs. “They ended after you graduated in the top five percent of our class. Which was, need I remind you, literally a month and a half ago.”

Spot catches up to Race, catches his hand. “What’s this I hear about smart kids?”

“Race is good at life,” Jack explains succinctly. Race flushes.

Spot nods thoughtfully. “I feel that.” He winks at Race. “Competent men are hot.”

Jack screeches. “THAT’S MY CUE TO GO. ANYWHERE BUT HERE.” He looks up to the roof. “ALIENS, TAKE ME BACK, PLEASE.”

 

They end up upstairs next to the Fishbowl, a quiet sitting room with puzzles and pencil crayons for break times. The hallway is covered in string, stretched from wall to wall in a strategically complicated barrier between them and the counselor at the other end. Nebula, hood pulled over her head and strings tied.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” she calls. “I’m sure you all recognize this little laser contraption. Right now it’s the only thing standing between you and something you need. Now, one at a time, you will attempt to get through this laser grid until one of you reaches the other side. Touch a laser- with any part of your body, no matter what you think the damage is- your turn is done. Get it?”

“Got it,” says Jack, and Charlie says, “Good,” so they sound like one cohesive unit. Once again, it’s a little freaky, but Race is long since used to their antics.

-

_Picture of Jack, trapped in an awkward limbo-like position with one leg in the air, staring at the camera with a look of utter helplessness._

_Caption: die_

-

Spot hands his key lanyard to Race and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before plunging into the mess of strings. Behind them, Michael, Ryan, and Jeremy make a series of suggestive _ooh_ s, but so far Race is concentrated exclusively on the tingle of his cheek.

Jack sidles up to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so starstruck.”

“He continues to surprise me,” Race whispers, watching fondly as Spot dodges another string by centimeters and swings a few limbs, ending up further down the maze than any of the rest of them had.

Spot’s Roommates Plus Albert have begun a sort of cheer that’s just Jeremy saying, “Spot?” and the rest yelling, “SPOT!” It gathers in intensity as Spot nears the finish line, and the seven of them cheer wildly as Spot emerges, victorious, on the other side of the strings.

“That’s my man!” Race shouts. Spot shoots him a grin.

Nebula gives Spot a puzzle piece and points him towards the back stairwell. He’ll meet them at the bottom. There’s just over ten minutes until dinner.

 

Waiting in the hallway, Jeremy says, “Is it worth it to try out another challenge?”

Albert does a quick count. “We’ve gathered six pieces so far, seven if you include the one we have yet to find at the cafeteria. That’s pretty impressive.”

“Speaking of impressive!” shouts Michael. “Albo, what the hell? Why aren’t you, like, a professional NERFer?”

“Do those exist?”

“No clue. They should. Have you tried paintball?”

The conversation buzzes around them as Race stands at the entrance to the stairwell, bouncing on the balls of his feet, swinging Spot’s keys back and forth.

“Psst.” It’s Spot, leaning out from the bottom step. “Guys.” He motions quickly for them to follow, and then he disappears again.

Race shifts a glance to Jack, who in turn stares at Charlie. They seem to communicate silently for a second. Spot’s Roommates Plus Albert are already inching toward the door.

On the landing are Spot and Tiki, clad in the strange combination of newsboy cap, bandit mask, and leather jacket that makes him look like a vigilante from three different eras. His voice is pitched low as well as he asks, “How well are you boys at acting?”

“Amazing,” Jack says before anyone can protest. “Crutch is a Shakespeare nerd and Race spent half our senior year as Jimmy from Millie.”

“My cousins and I used to put on plays in our grandparents’ basement. They were trash, but I still think that counts as acting experience,” says Michael. He shoots a pair of finger guns at Tiki.

Tiki nods. “Does anybody want to be a part of tonight’s finale?”

Once again first, Jack rubs his hands together. “Yes yes yes yes yes.” A quick glance at the others reveals that everyone is intrigued, if not already excited over the prospect.

“Excellent.” Scanning the group for a minute, Tiki hums. “Spot, I’m kidnapping you. That okay?”

“Oh, wow, okay, that’s an event,” says Spot, more surprised than anything. “Sure. Take me away, boys.”

Race pouts. “I’m guessing this is where acting comes into play,” he says. “Unless the counselors have the audacity to actually kidnap my boyfriend.”

Tiki shrugs and pulls out a NERF pistol. “Do you really want to find out?”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s almost dinner, boys,” Tiki says. “I’d suggest you get going. Speak of this to no one.”

With a look at Michael and Ryan, who are pressed closer together than usual, and Jeremy, who is suspiciously eyeing the foam pistol, Race takes a deep breath. Jack giggles. Charlie looks delighted at this new development, and Albert is almost matching him in enthusiasm.

Race looks up again at the stairwell. Spot and Tiki are gone.

-

_Snapchat from ROMEY-OH :0_

_The parade of their group walking into the cafeteria sans Spot, looking supremely worried with a sprinkle of dejection. Jack and Charlie keep whispering to each other. Michael and Ryan are eating off of one plate. Race is closed off, tired, sad._

_Caption: man what the fuck happened_

-

Race drops down beside Romeo at dinner and says bluntly, “Spot’s been kidnapped.”

Romeo immediately slams down his water bottle, thankful that no water had reached his mouth yet. “I’m sorry, _what?”_

“It’s true,” says Jeremy, flanking him. “We saw it happen.”

Synchronously, they grin at Romeo, just long enough for him to know it’s part of the plot of the evening. _“Oh,”_ says Romeo. “Uh, oh God. That’s intense.”

“Yeah,” says Race, moodily poking at his dinner. It’s something that looks like it could be pork. He doesn’t say much more.

 

`3. IT IS NOT FREDDI.`

The cafeteria is suspiciously silent. Jack shifts his tray over just slightly, enough to reveal the pocket of paper housing another puzzle piece. “Under the sit to eat place, just like the code said,” he says. “I managed to grab it when I hit the washroom before the lasers. Yeah?”

“Wicked,” whispers Ryan. They’re all sitting at the same table: Race’s apartment, Spot’s apartment, Jeremy, Romeo, and Romeo’s roommate Spencer. Spencer’s a flute like Charlie, so they sit next to each other and whisper about Things Only A Flute Deserves To Know. It’s probably just amiable conversation, but camp always has its way of keeping things interesting.

Jack finishes his questionably-pork and leans back in his chair. “So, what’s up tonight?”

“Rehearsal,” says Albert, and Race says, “We’d better rescue my goddamn boyfriend.”

Spencer perks up at that. “Where’d he go?”

“Disappeared in a stairwell,” Race says gravely, with just the right touch of humor. “Evidence shows it was involuntary. Perhaps by a tall counselor with a NERF gun.”

“Intriguing,” says Spencer. He rubs at his glasses, glances at Romeo, and grins. “Your guys’ stickynote was orange, wasn’t it? We’re in the same puzzle group.”

“Oho!” Jack chortles. “Excellent!”

And as he says that, Freddi steps up to the microphone.

 

`4. IT COULD BE JUNIPER.`

“Campers,” he says solemnly, after gathering their attention with a couple of quick taps. “It seems that our beloved leader Juniper has disappeared.”

Eerily in sync, nearly everyone in the cafeteria turns to examine the counselor table, and each come up with the same conclusion: Juniper is not currently eating dinner in the cafeteria.

Neither is Spot, though, and Race thinks there might be some sort of connection.

He turns to Jack. “Anyone else who might be missing?”

Jack looks around. “Hell if I know. I don’t even know half of these people, remember?”

“This means we must work harder than ever,” Freddi continues. “I promise you, campers of each faction alike, that we will get to the bottom of this. Rehearsal after dinner, don’t forget to put your trays away, go to Nebula or Scratch if you need meds. We’ll be seeing you.”

That signifies the end of dinner. Race feels a bit lost without the suddenly familiar feeling of Spot by his side. He hopes that it’s just the method acting.

 

Race hears all four trumpets during rehearsal. He even turns around, once, just to make sure that Spot is still there.

They pack up, though, and it’s like he was never there at all.

 

-

_Sneaky picture of the transition between two faculty performances. Caption: i miss my boyf_

-

Tiki corners them before they crowd into the black box for evening rec. His voice is still low for no particular reason- although Race suspects it’s just to stay in character- and he gives them the run-down of the night’s events. No spoilers, though. He winks at them before disappearing down to the service entrance.

“Spoopy,” says Michael, with the intent to say more until Ryan puts a hand firmly over his mouth.

In the black box, spread out across the floor, are masking-taped sections where each group is able to assemble the series of pieces they’ve collected over the course of the day. Some areas already have pieces, bits they’ve failed to find, and others- like the one blocked off in orange tape- are open for all to work on.

`5. TAKE THIS FOLDER WITH YOU TODAY. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT MIGHT COME IN HANDY.`

Race produces their apartment’s folder from his backpack. Jack adds the puzzle piece he grabbed from dinner to their stack, and together they add their six pieces to the quickly growing pile. Surrounding the puzzle-space is their group, Anna’s group, and a few others that Race doesn’t quite recognize. The puzzle pieces seem to lead to a sentence, phrase, or otherwise wordy thing, which is handy. “Words are easy to put together,” says Anna.

They mess around for a little bit until some semblance of order is created: anything with a green stripe goes to the group on the other side of their floor-portion, to be dealt with by the others, Anna’s team works on the blue words, and Race’s team works on the red words. Race, Anna, and the third group’s unofficial leader- Kate- consider it as a sort of contest.

Naturally, having it a contest in no way makes them go faster.

_Who has one name, many faces, and experiences with someone else’s brain?_

The green stripe seems to be largely for decoration, although someone does point out that the particular shade of green is the same shade one would tend to see inside a kiwi.

Race makes a list.

 

_people it could be_  
  
_-juniper_  
_-tiki_

 

“Who else?” he asks.

Not-Prue studies the riddle for a little bit, then says, “This does sound like something theatre-y. One of the drama counselors, perhaps?”

 

_-scratch_

 

All around the room, accusations are flying. Protests are being made. Race catches the tail-end of a debate as to why it can’t be Stone simply because it’s Stone’s day off _(but wouldn’t that just be a plot twist)._

It’s impressively communal. He’s got to admit, it’s a pretty good icebreaker.

Albert squats beside them, having checked the other groups’ puzzles for any indications that may help them. “Two of them were pictures. The other one had a ton of writing on it.”

“Did you look at any of them in actual detail?” Michael asks.

“Well, okay, listen,” Albert interjects, “one of the pictures looked like crossed-out silhouettes, and the other definitely had the, uh, the unicorn lanyard that Kiwi keeps her keys on. There was something else in that picture, though, a flashlight?”

Someone from Kate’s group looks up and says, “If they’re going off of counselor belongings, the flashlight is Talon’s. He helped me find my keys when I dropped them in the bush last week.”  
“Bruh, that’s nothing, remember when Jason dropped his keys down the storm drain?”

The conversation abruptly shifts, and Race adds Talon’s name to his list.

 

The evening comes to a climax about ten minutes later, as the back doors burst open Freddi leaps in, wielding a massive NERF rifle and a black baseball cap. He's followed by Plato and Tiki, and Plato is wrapped in a cape in a rather Dracula-like fashion.

"Agents." Freddi addresses the crowd of campers in a booming voice, gesturing carefully with his gun. "I am Agent Freddi, the head of the Concert Intelligence faction in this organization. As you may know, it is my job- along with our stealth experts, Plato and Sneaky Tiki- to discover the identity of a possible traitor in our midst. Now, by a show of cheers- how many of you wonderful wonderful concert band agents believe you have found my double agent?"

The half of the room with Race's band starts to cheer, relatively loudly. They may not be theatre kids, but they do use their lungs.

"Excellent," says Freddi. "I'm going to need-"

The doors fly open again. This time it's Kiwi and her fake moustache, trailed by Scratch, Talon, and Nebula, whose hoodie strings are pulled so tight only her nose is visible. She's holding a pad of paper, upon which is written **IT'S NOT ME** in giant black marker.

"I," Kiwi screams, "am Agent Kiwi, head of the Jazz and Theatre faction! And I protest this naming of the double agent! My accomplices, foreign affairs Scratch, super-hacker Nebula, and definitely regular guy Talon, have been working tirelessly to find the mole in our group. And have we?" She addresses the side of the room comprising of the musical theatre campers and the jazz campers. They answer with a resounding roar, louder by far than Race's side.

Freddi does a quick count of Kiwi's team. He pauses, then swings his gun at her. "Agent Kiwi," he says slowly, "I seem to be missing some assets."

"Ah, how about that," Kiwi says innocently. "As a matter of fact, I believe I am missing one too."

"We did not abduct one of your agents!" says Freddi, looking aghast. "We have a treaty in place. If only some people would follow it."

Kiwi looks thoroughly affronted. "Your missing agents are _not_ our fault."

"We must get to the bottom of this." They turn simultaneously towards the audience of campers. "You have discovered the identity of our double agent, correct?"

There's a mixed range of approval in the voices that follow, some confident, some absolutely not sure at all. Freddi and Kiwi take it to mean a tentative yes. Without a word, they rearrange themselves in a line.

Freddi steps out. "Give us a cheer if you think the double agent is Kiwi."

The group whose puzzle featured Kiwi's keychain give a small yet hearty cheer. Kiwi gasps, the perfect personification of the betrayed soul, and then leaps forward. "Cheer if you think it's Freddi!"

They go through the entire line of counselors the same way, with some receiving significantly more noise than others (namely, Talon and Scratch) and some receiving nearly none at all (Nebula and Plato). And then they're down to two; both from Kiwi's team, to her general dismay, they step forward and glance at each other.

"We're down to two," says Freddi, sounding all too smug about it. "Gentlemen. What might you say for yourselves?"

Scratch immediately blurts, "Not me."

"Real convincing," shouts Plato from the sidelines.

"Shut up," Scratch says. "I haven't been leaking info. I don't even know what a trumpet is."

Talon just stands.

"Definitely regular guy Talon?" Kiwi prompts. "Please tell me you're not betraying me."

He's silent for a while longer, and then Talon says, "Oh, I'm not the one betraying you."

"Oh, okay-" But Kiwi doesn't get to finish, because the back door opens and Spot is there, as is Juniper and another jazz kid, standing in a pile as they're pushed forward by none other than Tiki.

"Sneaky Tiki!" yells Freddi. "What do you think you're doing?"

Tiki smirks. "Exactly what I should be." There's something about him that's just a little bit different, and maybe it's that he's starting to lose the pitching on his voice, but it still doesn't seem right-

Talon laughs. He opens his jacket, whips out a NERF pistol, and points it at the group of three 'hostages'. "Sorry, Freds. Family comes first."

Together, they take off their hats, and the entire camp goes, _"OH."_

They've been spending the day _as each other._

It makes sense, in a hilarious kind of logic- they'd been so focused on learning the identity of one double agent that it never occurred to anyone that there could be two, regardless of the clues: one name, many faces, and experiences with someone else's brain? Easy. Talon's flashlight? Obvious. And the silhouettes that Albert witnessed could easily have included both of them. Race is willing to bet that the final puzzle, the one with too many words, also covertly points to the twins as well.

And, okay- voice pitching worked. The hats concealed the fact that their hair is discernibly different. Tiki is wearing boots to make them the exact same height.

"I think I just felt my brain leave my ears," Jeremy whispers. "Like, mind-goes-kaboom."

Focussing once more on the scene in front of them, Race flexes his fingers and relaxes again, waiting. There's a NERF pistol pointed at his boyfriend's forehead.

Tiki-As-Talon and Talon-As-Tiki start to circle. "You'll let us go if you value your agents' lives," says Talon. They're no longer concealing any differences. "Or are you prepared to show your entire staff what you're willing to sacrifice?"

"Ah, but," says Freddi, although he sounds unsure, and he looks at Kiwi for confirmation. "As fate may be, we have a secret weapon."

Kiwi starts to smile. "That is true, Agent Freddi." Race tenses. He makes eye contact with a kid across the room. Kiwi squints, staring at the crowd for just a moment, and then she and Freddi cry: "AGENTS!"

Race and the kid surge to their feet, almost equal in speed and stature, and Race takes no hesitation in firing his gently-gifted foam disc pistol at Tiki. The other kid, a jazz one, likely defending their friend, fires at Talon. They both react accordingly, despite the fact that Race has a shaky-at-best aim and probably didn't actually hit Tiki.

Juniper opens her arms and sighs dramatically. "We're safe!" She starts to push Spot and his neighbouring ex-hostage forward. "However can we thank you all?"

"Don't thank us," says Freddi.

"Thank the team," says Kiwi. In a nice swap of convention, the counselors applaud the campers, and for a moment- still standing- Race feels like they're applauding him. He's only looking at Spot, who is staring back with an expression Race can't quite decipher. He misses half of what the counselors say afterwards.

But they wrap it up pretty quickly after that. It's late, they went relatively overboard with the skit and now curfew is in literally five minutes- even though it takes ten minutes to get back to the apartments- and there are puzzle pieces all over the floor that the general public of the camp seems to be disregarding.

The moment they're allowed to move, Race picks his way through the mess of people between them and launches himself at Spot.

Spot laughs. "You know that wasn't real."

"Shut up," mutters Race. He's still holding the disc pistol. "It's worth it, though. Now you think I'm a hero."

"Never said I didn't," Spot says, and when Race pulls back he's still wearing that not-quite-nameable expression.

Jack, in the background, yells, "Grab your stuff and let's hit the road! We don't got all night!"

Race deposits his pistol safely in the hands of Freddi, grins at Freddi's _good job,_ and follows his team into the night air.

 

Instead of taking the shortcut, their team- the three Amigos, Spot’s apartment, and Albert- choose the outside path rather than winding their way through the industrial hallways. Once again, it’s a relatively quiet night; there’s a light breeze and the streetlights are just coming on, illuminating just enough of the rocky sidewalks. Jack, Jeremy, and Albert are walking ahead, laughing about something unknown. Michael and Ryan are tracing a path down the middle of the street, giggling about cars and owning the road.

Race feels like a badass, has since the evening at campus, and he whistles the Incredibles theme as they walk.

“You know that’s my part of the song,” Spot says, because one of their songs in an Incredibles medley and most of the cool jazzy parts go to the trumpets.

Race blows a raspberry at him. “I played trumpet once in like, grade eight. I could do it.”

Spot laughs. “Sure. I’ll just give you my part for tomorrow. See if you last the morning.”

“Asshole.”

“To be fair, I don’t think I’m physically capable of playing the horn. I’m not sure how your mouth can work in such… small spaces.” At Race’s raised eyebrow, he hastily backtracks. “Embouchures are _hard,_ okay?”

“Trust me, I know.”

They walk in quiet for a little while longer. The noise of campers returning to their apartments is distant yet welcome, littered with the laughter from Michael and Ryan and the occasional _ayyyy_ s stemming from the group ahead.

 

“Hey,” says Spot quietly, when they’re at his doorstep. “Do you know how glad I am to have met you?”

Race blinks slowly, and he feels a tired, lazy smile slip onto his face. “Probably not as glad as I am.”

“You’re an idiot.” Spot rubs the back of his neck. “But you’re pretty cool, as far as, you know, people go.”

“Thanks,” Race says, genuinely surprised. “And I’ve already been Jack-approved. That’s gotta be a bonus.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Race stands, fiddling with his hands. “Well, goodnight.”

“See you tomorrow, hero.”

The same expression is on Spot’s face. Race gives himself time to mimic it and realizes it’s an expression of starstruck, instant fondness that feels so familiar. So familiar, in fact, that nothing about it seems out of place, staring at Spot in the doorway of the college apartment, tired yet still laced with leftover adrenaline.

Spot’s standing on the ledge between the outside and the inside, so he has a rare height advantage as he leans in to kiss Race’s forehead.

Race has a similar idea, though, and he tips his head up just in time for their noses to smush together. Just past that, though, is a kiss, a _real_ one- and however fleeting it is, it gives way to a spread of warmth through Race’s entire chest.

Spot tilts a characteristically soft smile at him. “Have a good night.”

“You too, damsel.”

Race chuckles as he leaps off the stairs, leaving Spot to shout about how he _definitely was not a damsel, please and thank you!_ to the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should explain that most of this is Not True Events, however there was a Spy Day and a thing where the counselors were in 'sides' and featured a Marked Betrayal at the end of the night, they just weren't on the same day. and I mostly just wrote this chapter because it's everything I wish happened at camp.
> 
> (this is also the most planning I've ever done for anything, ever. please appreciate me)
> 
> next chapter is chock-full of shennanigans! stay tuned!! xx


	11. A Quiet Day of Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the final Wednesday is full of everything the boys want to do with their lives, including singing duets, nailing each other with dodgeballs, and eating too much food after curfew. Also, Jack's being supsicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all! this chapter is the "encompasses all the shit the boys get up to at camp" chapter and it's not late I promise!!! life has been a lot but I will see this through to the end. I swear.   
> enjoy!

Jack is playing _It’s Raining Men_ uncharacteristically loudly when Race wakes up. It bleeds through the wall, quietly accompanying the doodle-beep of his alarm, and in the minute before he turns it off Race swears the beats line up.

Then, Jack drops something, and there’s some shuffling downstairs, and once again (or is it always?) Race is the last one awake.

Maybe it’s fate. Maybe he’s not meant to be a morning person.

“Weren’t you going to try and go on the runs with Stone?” Jack asks, sticking his head out his bedroom door as soon as Race emerges. “Because it’s Wednesday Number Two and so far that absolutely has not happened.”

Race blinks. Jack is wearing bright red jeans and a bomber jacket, two items that before this very moment Race didn’t know even existed. “Does this have anything to do with you blasting 80’s pop?”

“I’m in a mood,” Jack says. “I may have dreamed that we were, like, freedom fighters in some sort of post-apocalyptic world and 80’s pop and this-” he tugs on the jacket- “make me feel like I’m ready to own the world. You should join me! Crutchie’s already got his fight-homophobes face on.”

“He’s always got his fight-homophobes face on. That _is_ his face.”

Jack shrugs. “No matter. You know what to do.”

So at 7:30, when Scratch and Tiki come to wake them up, they’re greeted by an apartment full of quiet teenage rebellion.

“Happy Wednesday,” says Jack. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

 

“Guys,” Romeo says, upon witnessing them in the breakfast line. “You _need_ to start texting me when you’re coordinating. I guarantee I’ve got something to match.”

Spencer, who is significantly taller than Romeo and is currently using Romeo’s head as an armrest, throws in: “He’s right. I’m pretty sure his suitcase has some sort of magic on it, he just keeps pulling things out of it like it’s bottomless.”

“Stop exposing me like this.”

-

_“Why the fuck is there still Jell-O? It’s breakfast.”_

-

They walk to rehearsal the usual way- which, in their case, means that Race, Romeo, Anna, and Nick create a tooth-brushing train across the courtyard on the way to the music building. Anna starts humming _Vida la Vida,_ and somehow they divulge into an absolutely horrible attempt at a three-part harmony, all the while trying not to laugh too hard.

“I hate this,” Jack says casually as he trails behind them, recording the entire thing. Race sticks his middle finger out without looking back.

 

Halfway through rehearsal, Race drops his music onto Romeo’s stand. “Play first today. I’m tired.”

“Race,” Romeo says, slowly, carefully, “that solo goes to a high A flat.”

“Yeah, and?”

_“I can barely play a G.”_

“Eh,” Race says, and he waves a hand. “You’ll be fine. Think of it as prep for next year.”

Romeo glances around them, at Anna who looks like she’s trying to eat her mouthpiece and Nick who’s chugging water like he’s been dared, and sighs. “I’m pretty sure Anna’s a more competent choice for first anyway.”

“Lies,” Anna says, removing her mouthpiece from her mouth. “Rome, you’re a shoe-in. But it would be awesome if you gave me a solo. I’d really super appreciate it.”

“Cool!” Romeo drops Race’s sheet music onto her stand. “You’re first today.”

And then Medda motions and the band starts playing and all four of them are left sitting blankly, trying to figure out where they are and what the fuck is going on.

-

_“Hey, Jack!”_

_“Hey, what?”_

_“Bang!” A finger-gun enters the frame._

_Jack stumbles back, holding onto his chest, looking shocked._

_“You- you’ve killed me.”_

_“Ha!”_

_“Betrayal.” Jack lies on the floor face-down and stays there._

_The camera shakes as Race goes to follow…_

-

They meet up with Charlie at first break and together they walk to the tables outside the cafeteria. Jack has a deck of cards in his back pocket, so he deals them out to play _Go Fish_ while they pass the time.

“Guess what day it is,” he says as he peruses his hand.

“Wednesday,” Race says, as Charlie says, “A good day to fight the world.”

Jack levels them both a look. “Yes, yes, and no,” he says. “It’s recital night. I do hope you’re prepared.”

Recital night is kind of a camp tradition between the three of them; each of them prepares something to do in the apartments after rec and they set it up all fancy-like, complete with a tablecloth and fake candles. In years previous, Charlie’s shown them his orchestra audition piece ( _“I hate that you have fingers,”_ said Jack, in reference to the runs) and Race and Jack often team up to sing.

Charlie’s eyes widen. “Shit.”

Race stares him down and slams his hand on the table. “Vacuum noises, vacuum noises, _vacuum noises._ Please. I beg you.”

“Absolutely not,” Charlie says. “I’ve already done enough damage with the vacuum noises. Isn’t that what made the counselors storm in and tell us to shut up?”

Jack sighs happily. “Ah, the smell of teenage rebellion.”

Plato appears next to them, having caught the tail-end of the conversation. “Heck yeah, stick it to the old people.”

“Plato, didn’t you graduate, like, two years ago?”

Plato nods. “I’m also sticking it to the old people. They deserve some stick. What’cha playing?”

Jack deals her in, and they start again.

 

It’s lunch, and Charlie finds more Jell-O in the dessert fridge. “I’m going to start collecting it,” he says. “A Jell-O rainbow? Who doesn’t want one of those?” He stuffs another cup in his backpack, this one blue.

“Gluttonous Ocean,” Jack says, as a way to rechristen the blue to a more sophisticated name. Charlie nods. Lunch is massive slices of pizza that are not particularly warm, and it’s hard to eat more than two pieces, but they do it anyway.

Spot sits across from Race, eyes glinting when he sets down his tray. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he says. “Life?”

“Life,” Jack says, delighted that he’s picked it up so quickly. “How’s trumpetland?”

Spot sighs. “I didn’t even play in my lesson today. Martin talked about theory for the entire hour. I know theory. I’ve done RCM. I’m actually good at life.”

“I sense the dig at those of us who don’t know theory and I don’t appreciate it,” says Jack, who is planning on attending university for music and definitely needs some level of theory to apply.

There’s another tray slamming onto the table at exactly that moment, and everyone looks up to see Nori, stretching a smile across her face with the expression of someone supremely pained. “My friends are making horrible puns about each other’s names and I figured I’d escape while I still could.”

“Gee,” says Race, “bet you really Raced away from there.”

Nori blinks at him. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

“Well, I know Jack-squat about this,” says Jack.

“I might have been told, but my memory’s a bit Spotty,” says Spot.

“Maybe it’s time to Rome around a little bit,” adds Romeo from across the table, completely interrupting his own conversation with Spot’s roommates.

Nori sighs, bracing her elbows on the table and putting her face in her hands. “I need to get better friends.”

-

_Choir: They’re learning choreography for Eye of the Tiger. So far, all they have is the baritones - featuring Jack, rubbing his belly in circles and patting the top of his head._

_“Fantastic,” says the choir director. “Let’s do that!”_

_Jack shoots the camera the most conspiratorial grin Race has ever seen._

-

They go back to the apartment during the second break because _why not,_ and Charlie puts his Jell-O collection in the fridge. “That’ll keep it cool until tonight. Maybe they’ll have cough-drop red at dinner.”

“You don’t like cough-drop red,” Jack reminds him, “because it tastes like cough drops.”

“It’s for the rainbow, Jack. You wouldn’t understand.”

Race emerges from the foot of the stairs holding a blanket. “I’m making a blanket fort in here and there’s nothing either of you can do about it.”

They spend the remainder of the break- about half an hour- moving the living room furniture ever-so-slightly around, hooking the blanket over the standing lamp that looms in the corner, tucking it under couch cushions. The fort resembles a small blue shack, just large enough for one person to crawl into. They prop the entrance open with a chair.

It’s dubbed The Creative Corner and The Blanket Fort of Sadness simultaneously.

Stone knocks on their door about ten minutes to the end of break, their signal to make their way back to the arts building. Jack opens the door just as Stone is getting ready to leave again, dubbing their apartment empty. “Ahoy.”

“Time to go,” Stone says cheerfully. “Having fun?”

“We built a fort,” says Jack. “Legally, I promise.” One of their main rules is _don’t move the furniture,_ but that’s in place to make sure campers don’t attempt to put their bedframes in the living room or significant changes besides. “Want to see?”

Stone laughs. “Tell you what, I’ll be making the rounds tonight, I’ll be sure to check it out then. You boys get yourselves to your ensembles, okay? Does Charlie need a ride?”

Charlie sticks his head out the door. “Please.”

“I’ll be around in a minute.” Stone makes the _I’m watching you_ sign at Jack and Race. “Get going.”

“Yes, sir,” says Jack, throwing him a two-fingered salute.

-

_chat with JACK!!!_

_higginzzz: jackinthefort.png_

_higginzzz: this doesn’t look like a sad man in a sad blanket fort_

_higginzzz: he looks. Creative_

_higginzzz: almost like he belongs_

_higginzzz: in a Creative Corner_

_higginzzz: not a Blanket Fort of Sadness (which is a terrible name and you know it)_

_JACK!!!: shut he fuck up racetrack_

_higginzzz: shut he_

_JACK!!!: i will rip ur lips off_

-

They get craft supplies at rec, and Race makes himself some squiggly antennae out of pipe cleaners. Spot takes the opportunity to boop them every single time he walks past, and then starts making up excuses to walk past exclusively so he can boop them.

“You guys need to stop,” says Jack. “It’s sickening. Absolutely sickening.”

Race grins at him. “You’re jealous.”

“He was my best friend first.”

Spot walks by, boops Race’s antennae, and says, “You’re damn right.” Jack hisses his victory.

 

Charlie finds his cough-drop-red Jell-O at dinner and everything is good.

 

“Hey, Race.”

Race looks up to see Jack, with his own phone for once, pointing the camera at him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Jack says, absolutely lying. “I’m just. Checking on some things.”

Snorting, Race shifts a half-grin back at Jack and returns to his plate, where a pile of somewhat creamed corn awaits him. Charlie digs his elbow into Race’s side and Race looks up to see that he’s arranged his vegetables into a smiley face. Jack’s camera watches them the entire time.

“Seriously, Jack, you’re definitely up to something,” says Race.

Charlie huffs. “When is he not?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, gentlemen,” Jack says. He puts the phone down surreptitiously, placing it so it hangs just over the edge of the table, ready to be snatched up again at a moment’s notice. “I’m just living my life over here with my-” he pokes his food with his fork- “cold chicken.”

_“You’re_ a cold chicken,” Race can’t help but mutter.

Charlie laughs out loud, and somehow between those two things Jack has whipped his phone up again. Definitely weird.

-

_A music-stand selfie from evening rehearsal, featuring Race and Romeo with their mouthpieces in their mouths. Behind them, Spot just barely spies the camera and is midway into throwing up a thumbs-up._

_JACK!!! has taken a screenshot._

-

_chat with JACK!!!_

_higginzzz: what the hell is going on_

_JACK!!!: i still have no idea what ur talking about_

-

They walk into the Box for evening rec and are greeted with intense Pirates of the Caribbean, pale blue lighting, and a massive pile of boxes and gym mats splitting the room in half.

Crunch, dressed in dollar-store pirate gear, numbers them off as soon as they’re all in. She and Juniper- a too-large pirate hat stuffed on her head- stand in front of the Mound of Various Things, waving their hands to quickly quiet down the room.

“Avast, ye mateys,” Juniper says. “Welcome to live-action Battleship.”

The pair of them, along with Stone and a brief appearance from a plastic sword-wielding Scratch, go through a spectacularly fluid explanation of the rec event. What happens is this: two teams, one on either side of the Mound, arrange themselves in lengths of two to five people, sitting on the ground in lines. Some people get dodgeballs. They throw the dodgeballs over the Mound in an attempt to hit the other team’s “ships”.

Race and Charlie are on one team, and Jack is on the other- he winks at them and says, “I’m using my best-friend sense to nail you guys.” He disappears around the edge of the Mound.

Juniper takes up residence on top of a stable-looking pile of blocks and shouts, “All right, teams, get into position!”

There’s a scatter of people rushing to find their spots and Race ends up sandwiched in a three-person boat in the centre of their side, between Nick and a jazz kid. Nick glances over his shoulder at Race. “Ready?”

“Pfft, no,” says Race. But when Scratch runs around handing dodgeballs out to people, Race grabs one. He might as well attempt to hit Jack with the same vigor Jack will inevitably be trying for them.

Juniper counts down from five and pauses. “Team A, ready to shoot?”

Race is on Team B. A dodgeball comes flying up over the Mound and bounces just inches away from his knee, hitting no one. Immediately, Scratch yells, _“Splash!”_

“Team B!” Juniper shouts. Race makes eye contact with the two others holding dodgeballs and hefts his arm. A silent agreement: they’ll let him throw.

He does.

_“Boom!”_ shouts Stone, as well as approximately four other people. The other people on Race’s team stare at him triumphantly, the quiet equivalent of _good on you for drawing first blood._ Charlie, from his permanent spot at the front of a five-person train, gives him a thumbs-up.

Race can almost feel Jack in his head saying _oh, it’s on._ Sure enough, the next ball that comes flying their way plows through one of their ships, and those who were a part of that ship skitter back so their backs are against the wall.

They go back and forth for a while. Race’s ship gets knocked out next, then miraculously the two-person boat hiding as close as they can to the Mound. They’ve knocked out at least three of the other team’s ships as well, but no one knows how many there are.

Finally, one of the dodgeballs comes diagonally over the Mound and lands neatly in the lap of the person sitting behind Charlie. _“Boom!”_ they shout, and that round is over.

Juniper screeches excitedly. “First round goes to Team A!” A cheer rises from that side of the room. They get a thirty more seconds to rearrange themselves into a new formation, and then they start again.

 

Team A wins by a landslide of 4 to 1 games.

 

“That was epic,” Jack crows as they’re walking back to their apartments. They don’t have an early night, necessarily, but it’s not too late- just enough time for all their evening plans.

“You’re only saying that because you won,” says Race. “If you can’t tell, I’m bitter about it.”

“Hey,” Jack points out, “I was out first in the first round. My team was just better than yours.”

“Wait. You were out first? Dude, I threw that ball.”

Jack’s eyes go wide. “You’re the fucker who got me out.”

Race grins. “Guilty.” He doesn’t stop grinning when Jack pushes him off the path and into the grass.

 

They open the front door and the entry light is off, which is not a good sign.

“Jack,” Race says.

“Race,” says Jack.

“Jack.”

“Race.”

Race reaches out and turns on the light, coming face-to-face with the door that separates the entryway from the main hallway. It’s almost never closed, but it is now, and that sets his skin on edge. “This is suspicious.”

Jack has his phone out, which- in the context of his weird behaviour at dinner- is also somewhat suspicious.

They slip off their shoes quietly, like any sound might cue the wrath of Joseph the Third, and Race eases open the hallway door.

Still, no lights are on, but they can see the soft orange glow originating from the small kitchen area.

Charlie, existing first as nothing but a silhouette, turns in his chair the moment they enter the living area. “I’ve been waiting for you.” The orange glow turns out to be one of their fake candles, sitting in the middle of the table on top of a stack of Oreos.

“Jeez,” Jack says, “how did you get here before us?”

“Stone,” Charlie says happily. “He likes the company, and my leg’s been a bitch today.”

Jack makes a _that’s fair_ face and flops down into the chair next to him. “We just about ready to go?”

“I’m game,” Race says. He drops his bag unceremoniously in the middle of the floor. “Let’s get this bread, boys.”

“Actually, it’s meat and cheese,” Jack says.

“Get my Jell-O too!”

Rifling through the fridge, Race takes stock of the literal Jell-O rainbow that exists on the top shelf. “Which colour?”

Charlie looks at him from over the door of the fridge. _“All.”_

-

_A video: flickering fake candlelight, The Beatles, and Jack, holding a group of grapes above his mouth in an oil-paint-worthy picture. He holds it for a few seconds, then laughs lightly._

_Caption: charcuterie night 2k18. I’ll miss this._

-

_chat with spot <3_

_spot <3: what the fuck is charcuterie_

_higginzzz: it’s the meat cheese board thing???_

_spot <3: that’s called a cheese board dingus_

_higginzzz: but,,, that implies only cheese_

_spot <3: no it has crackers + meat_

_spot <3: why would you say charcuterie (4 syllable) when you could say cheese (1)_

_higginzzz: It’s Not A Cheese Board If There’s Meat_

_spot <3: that’s the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard_

_higginzzz: ur just jealous that we’re having fun_

_spot <3: :P_

-

Charlie rips the plastic lid off the container of orange Jell-O and stares at it. “This is _liquid.”_

“What?” Jack leans over, tries to catch a glimpse of the orange mush inside the cup. “How?”

“I put it in the fridge so it would stay solid!” Charlie sighs. He sticks his fingers into the Jell-O and resurfaces with the whipped cream the cafeteria likes to put on top, slipping the blob into his mouth. “This is not right.”

Because the Jell-O is rather liquid, to the point where it will most definitely drip if tilted too far, and there are small pieces of gelatin floating around in orange goop that looks completely unappealing.

“Are all of the cups like this?” Race asks, already getting up to check the fridge. Sure enough, Gluttonous Ocean and Really Purple are similarly liquefied.

“That’s disappointing,” Charlie pouts.

“You know what it is? Life.”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

 

They’re not supposed to play in their dorms after lights-out, but _technically_ lights-out hasn’t happened yet, even though it’s lights-out time. No one’s come around for evening check-in which means they’re not allowed to go to sleep yet, so Charlie pulls out his flute and Jack and Race huddle in the Blanket Fort of Creativity (Not Sadness) working out new harmonies for a song they’d heard in January.

“I’m surprised you’re not doing another love song,” Charlie says conversationally, using his flute to lift the edge of the fort to stare at them. “Last year’s was, I confess, epic.”

“Nah,” Jack grins. “Remember when we went to go see _City of Angels?”_

He leaves it a mystery beyond that.

 

The barrage of evening check-in knocks happen right as Charlie is finishing his final flourish, having just played an etude from a grade ten RCM book that Jack is very jealous of. At the door is Stone and Tiki, eyeing the flute like it’s not supposed to exist.

“Evening,” Jack says jovially. “Welcome.”

“Hello,” says Stone, “I hear there’s some sort of party happening over here.”

“A party!” Jack seems delighted at the idea. “I mean, yeah, it’s kind of that.”

Tiki takes in the blanket fort, fake candles, and Race, who is sitting on the couch elbow-deep in a bag of popcorn twists. “This is exciting.”

“It is,” Race assures him. “We’re doing, like, a mini recital. Do you want a frozen grape?”

Stone laughs. “They’re _frozen?”_

“Oh, absolutely.”

Tiki and Stone each help themselves enthusiastically to frozen grapes. It’s not a new thing, their ‘fancy dorm night’, but it sure is a welcome surprise- one that gets the lucky counselors food.

“Don’t stay up too late,” says Stone. “Lights-out as soon as possible.” He points at Charlie. “That means no more playing!”

Charlie points his flute back at him. “I won’t make another sound.”

“Good. Have an awesome night, boys!”

-

_The camera is leaning sideways on the table, just barely catching the entirety of Jack and Race as they (quietly) perform “You’re Nothing Without Me”. There’s even some improvised choreography._

_Race slides in front of Jack on the last note, overtaking him, and as soon as they cut off Jack tackles him to the ground, out of the frame. A few scuffling noises, then, “Jack, you’re an idiot.”_

_“Oh, I’m well aware.”_

-

They don’t go to sleep at lights-out. Race finally sits on his bed at a time well past midnight, having spent the past hour lying on the stairs deep in conversation with Jack and Charlie, talking about everything and nothing all at once.

He opens the curtain above his window. The lone streetlight across the road is buzzing, just barely, but other than that there is silence.

And Race thinks, fleetingly, that this is never going to happen again.

 

The wave of sadness is gone in the time it takes for him to close the curtain and actually scoot into bed. There’s only so much time left at camp, and there’s an overwhelming need to make it the best it can possibly be.

Still, Race closes his eyes and thinks of the red-brick music building and the smell of backstage and, yes, even the reasonably sketchy cafeteria food, and something in his heart flutters. Twists, turns, breaks.

Not enough to cause any pain. Just enough to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: a timeskip to Friday, some dancing, kisses, and sadness- not necessarily in that order. or is it?
> 
> let me know what you thought!!! xx


	12. A Box of Crayons' Last Night on Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is setting on the days of band camp. What is there to do for one final day?  
> Take a bunch of dumb videos, of course. Mad libs? Shakespeare? How about some crying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been an entire month and i'm so sorry

Stars. Race dreams of stars.

Each of them has a different face: Jack and Charlie, shining the brightest in the inky night; Spot, burning a bright yellow; Romeo and Anna and Ryan and Michael and Jeremy and even Nick the Fourth Horn, glinting at Race, alone on the ground. He lies on his back in the middle of a field, a light breeze playing across his face.

 _This is what the universe looks like,_ says an unattached voice, unnamed, anonymous. _These are your stars._

Race blinks, and he’s staring at the ceiling of the bedroom he gets for exactly one more night.

It’s Friday.

 

“’Sup, loser,” Jack greets as per usual, perfectly awake and ready to go the moment Race stumbles blearily out of his bedroom. “Ready for our last day?”

“No,” says Race, scrubbing his hand across his face with a groan. Because honestly, he’s tired, exhausted from playing for five hours a day and waking up early and braving the heat as they walk, perpetually late to breakfast- but when he truly questions if he wants to leave, the answer is an overwhelming _no._ Camp is home, always has been.

“Same,” Jack says. He disappears into his room and returns with a belt. “We going fancy again for the whole day?”

As if he needs to ask, already dressed, wearing something that’s a little horrifying but so painfully _Jack._ He’s so excited that it’s apparent he’s been sitting on this for a while.

“Jack, what the _fuck,”_ says Race, as soon as he realizes exactly what’s going on in front of him.

“What?” Jack tugs on his yellow blazer, making sure it settles perfectly across his shoulders. “This old thing?”

It’s not just yellow. There’s a pattern across the back that has palm trees and flamingos, unimaginably- and beneath it, Jack is shrouded in all black. For how absolutely hideous the blazer is, Jack pulls it together unfairly well.

Race feels an intense desire to return to his bed and fall asleep.

Jack grins at him. “Your turn!”

 

They end up, unwittingly, as primary colours, as Race’s shirt is red under his black jacket and Charlie is wearing a blue vest. It’s not the worst thing that could happen but it is definitely the most amusing.

-

_Another cramped mirror selfie featuring the boys, captioned: happy fancy day II from the box of crayons_

-

_“Jack, oh my god, that’s a deer. That’s a deer. Jack. Jack look. It’s a deer.”_

_“Are you talking about that one?”_

_“No, this- oh my god there’s two deers. Deer? Plural? JACK THERE’S TWO.”_

-

Breakfast is French toast, which is- in Race’s opinion- the best breakfast the cafeteria puts out. Maybe he has low standards, considering the mediocrity of the food as a whole, but the toast is _good._

He picks it up off his plate with his fingers and takes a massive bite, accidentally dropping eggs onto the table. Spot decides on that exact moment to drop his tray on the table right next to him and smiles as though he hasn’t just watched Race stuff his face. “’Morning, handsome.”

“You’re an asshole and I love you,” says Race, but since his mouth is full, it comes out more like “Oo en ooshoo en I hoo oo.”

Spot, who then takes a mouthful of juice, says, “Love you too, dickhead,” but it comes out as “Mmm m mmm.”

Jack glances at Charlie. “Is this true love?” Race and Spot nod vigorously.

“True love over cough-drop juice and reasonable-at-best toast,” Charlie agrees. “Sorry, guys, I’m pretty sure this is the plot of _Romeo and Juliet.”_

Spot manages to swallow his juice before he spits it out all over the table. “If you connect me and Romeo and Juliet again I will deck you.”

“Oh?” Charlie looks innocent and it’s frankly a little terrifying. “What are you gonna do, punch the one kid who can’t run away from you?”

“I will if you provoke me.”

Jack’s interest is piqued. “What’s your beef with Romeo and Juliet?”

“Look, I hold nothing against the story itself, but when I was in grade ten my English teacher made us do a dumb cafeteria production of it to _better immerse ourselves in the play,_ and no one was volunteering so I put my hand up to play Romeo and my teacher, God bless her soul, saw me and another kid at the same time and cast me as Juliet. Which was all well and good, except then I literally could not stop myself from quoting _specifically_ Juliet’s lines every time I spoke for a year and a half. And I just recently broke myself of that habit so please don’t give it back to me.”

“God,” says Jack, “somehow, that’s exactly the kind of thing that would end up happening to you. I mean, listen, gay freckles dinosaur kid? Definitely quoting Shakespeare in his free time.”

“Who quotes Shakespeare in his free time?” says Romeo himself from the other end of the table. “No, please go on, I’m curious to see who can overtake me as Shakespeare king.”

Charlie wheels around in his chair and says, “Fight me, loverboy.”  
-

_Race and Jack are staring at the camera, nonplussed. In the background, Romeo and Charlie are trading Shakespearean insults. Romeo throws a clump of scrambled eggs at Charlie._

_“You EGG!”_

-

“Good morning, everyone!” Juniper breathes, starting the morning announcements. “Happy Friday, happy formal day, or not formal day if that doesn’t float your boat. I can already see something happening over there-” she waves her hand indeterminately in Jack’s direction- “and I’m sure there’s plenty more to come.”

Jack throws a thumbs-up in her direction. Juniper’s already moving on, though: “By this point, a lot of you should know the drill: we’re switching up choir and small ensembles for the concert band kids, which means that theatre kids have vocals after lunch instead of before lunch. Whatever it is that happens after lunch will be cut short, and by three o’clock we want you all ready to go either in the audience of the main auditorium or right backstage.”

She continues to talk, detailing the routines that are second nature to the trio after three to five years of camp. Race blows out a breath in a loose buzz. “I’m having trouble wrapping my head around the whole _final concert_ thing.”

“Relax,” says Jack. “That’s not ‘till tomorrow. Plus, today we get to dance out our frustrations until they literally disappear. That’s pretty cool.”

“You’re pretty cool.”

“Your _face_ is pretty cool.”

Juniper finishes her speech and the cafeteria begins to thunder with the sound of scraping chairs and utensils on trays. Jack stares down Race as they stand up. “This conversation is not over.”

 

In warm-ups, their horn instructor decides they’ve been playing enough in the past two weeks and creates a back-rub train. It turns out that alongside horn playing, she’s a certified massage therapist, and it’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to band camp.

“Anna,” Romeo says. “You’re literally just punching me.”

“That’s a straight-up lie,” says Anna. “If I was punching you, you’d know.”

“I do know. That’s what your fists feel like. You are punching me.” Anna shushes him, and Race suddenly hears the _thump_ of a fist meeting a back. “Anna!”

 _“That’s_ what me punching you feels like. Get it right, soupwad.”

Nick sighs. “I have a feeling this will be more effective if we stop assaulting each other.”

 

Race has absolutely no perception of the space around him, which is why it’s so easy for Spot to lean forward in the middle of rehearsal and blow a puff of air through his trumpet directly into Race’s ear.

He looks way too smug about it when Race whips around in his chair, giving him his best glare without any heat behind it. Race can feel his ears start to go again. “I hate you,” he hisses.

Spot shrugs. “Nah.”

“The fact that you say that so casually should be worrying.”

-

_“Alright, guys, I need an adjective. Make it good.”_

_“Lukewarm.”_

_“I think we’re describing something that doesn’t have temperature.”_

_“Lukewarm!”_

_“Fine. We now have lukewarm feelings.”_

-

It’s their last choir rehearsal before the concert tomorrow and they’re standing in a semi-circle around the piano pulling faces at each other instead of singing. Which is okay for now, because the choir director is working with the altos, but then they have to move and Race trips over his own water bottle and nothing is good.

He pulls off his shoes because fuck shoes and brushes off his pants. Spot is grinning at him, laughter alight in his eyes.

“Tenors! Let me hear that line again! I want your voices to echo across the auditorium. Give me that good old projection.”

Race, still on the ground, sighs. Spot offers his hand. Race takes it and doesn’t let go. “One year of my life spent as Jimmy Smith himself,” he whispers, “and somehow I still forget how to project as soon as the show ends.”

 

Spot is well-reserved in his own opinion but he thinks Race has the best voice he’s ever heard. But, well, he might just be biased.

 

Lunch is oversized chicken strips and the first thing Race does is take one and balance it between his nose and his lip like a chicken moustache, looking much too proud of himself. Jack takes a picture.

Spot appears next to them, takes one look at Race, and says, “Don’t move. I’m going to eat your moustache.”

“Wait, no,” says Race, but there’s no feeling behind it and he stays perfectly still. Spot sets his tray down. He licks his lips in anticipation and Jack lets out a surprised shout of laughter.

“Stay… right… there.” Spot stands over Race, winks at him, and leans down, going for the chicken strip with an open jaw. Race mumbles a little bit, absolutely does not squeak _(shut up, Jack)_ and wiggles in his chair, just enough to dislodge the chicken strip from where Spot is tugging at it, trying to get a bite. It hangs in the air for a moment before tumbling to the floor.

Spot has a mouthful of chicken strip in his mouth and it definitely tastes like victory.

The table applauds. Most of them, at least- Race is looking at the chicken strip on the floor with a small pout. “That’s a right waste.”

“I’ll trade you one of mine,” says Spot. “Do you want to try?”

“No thanks, getting close to your face once was enough.” Race’s eyes go wide. “Any more and I’m pretty sure the counselors’ PDA alarms will start going off.”

“Remember, boys,” says Charlie. “Non-lingering side hugs.”

 

Martin, surprisingly, is the one who’s late after lunch, so Race, Nick, and their ensemblemates sit on the radiator and various instrument cases and talk about life.

One of the tubas, a lovely girl with indigo hair and a nose piercing, is also graduating. Her name is Santos and this is her last year playing for the foreseeable future- she’s going to Europe for post-secondary, and there she’ll be too bogged down with work and school to do much recreational tuba-ing.

“I’ll miss her,” she says, patting her tuba case.

And it’s kind of like she’s thrown a thought-snowball right at Race’s head, the chill of remembrance melting down his neck, because there’s still been no word from any of the colleges he applied to and that’s horrifying. Not that he minds taking a year and working, but the suspense is something he’d managed to forget in the past two weeks. It’s not pleasant.

“Race, what are you planning on doing after this?” asks Elmer, the euphonium, and Race opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

Thank _god_ for Martin’s approach. “Sorry I’m late, kids,” he says, unlocking his studio door and ushering them all in. “I know we’ve got less time today, so all I want to do is a quick tune, play through our song, and then we’ll chat about recital procedure.”

The topic is quickly forgotten, but Race can’t help but worry all through the tuning.

“Right,” says Martin after they finish playing. “There were a few things in the middle, but we’re not going to address those right now. Once Race cuts you off, you’re all going to watch for Santos and Aiden to stand. They’ll be leading it because they have the behemoth instruments. Keep watching them for your cue to stand- try it.”

They have to try it a few times to get it right, but they do, and Martin applauds them the entire time. Race and Nick high-five.

There’s ten minutes left. Martin advises them not to play, so they sit in a circle while Elmer plops out some tunes on Martin’s keyboard for them to guess. No conversations like before occur and Race is grateful.

Martin regards them all with pride before they leave. “It’s been a pleasure,” he says. “I hope you all are leaving here as better musicians than when you came.”

“Yes, sir,” replies Race. He tucks his horn under one arm in order to shake his hand. “Thank you.”

Thus begins the end of band camp.

 

The concert begins as they all do: with a brass fanfare, led by the other trumpet instructor. It’s followed by the double reed quartet each with some sort of ribbon tied onto their instruments, and they do some funky stuff with tonality and duck-like music. Nori’s orange bow tie clashes horribly with her bubblegum-blue hair. She looks like she’s having the time of her life.

Jack’s ensemble goes next, and they play a Beauty and the Beast medley- which Race knows about only because Jack has spent the past week complaining about chord progressions and Winston’s continual requests for him to play the piano.

No one in Race’s ensemble wears shoes, but they all have amazing socks. His are blue with tacos on them, and he’s rolled up his pants so they’re more visible. Santos has very vibrant pride flags on her socks. Nick’s have fireworks.

They’re called the Socked Crusaders and that name was entirely Race’s idea, he’s taking credit for it, thank you very much- it earns a small titter from the audience as they realize exactly what’s going on.

They play pretty good music, too.

That’s a bonus.

-

_Race, Charlie, Spot, Anna, the regulars- plus some others, some stragglers, even the jazz kids- in a massive double-line that resembles a vague oval, playing an extended version of Stella-Ella-Ola. No one seems to notice that the dinner line ahead of them has long since moved on._

-

The roast beef-potato-vegetable combination of Banquet Night never changes, but somehow on this particular night everything tastes fantastic. Just like the week before, the counselors are serving them, handing them utensils, leading them to tables- and it’s absolutely delightful for Jack, who will definitely end up counseling someday and is already comrades with most of them.

Kiwi stocks their table with the watery orange crystal-juice and Romeo makes an offhand comparison to really weirdly coloured alcohol and suddenly they’re all swinging their fist-sized plastic cups of juice in the air like a rowdy set of pirates with their ale. A resounding roar goes up over the cafeteria following their initial cheer. Jack’s filming the whole thing with a massive smile on his face. His eyes are soft.

Race, one leg hooked around Spot’s, leans over to Jack. “All right?”

“Better than ever,” replies Jack. “And that is one hundred percent the truth.”

 

Freddi hooks his phone to the announcement speaker and starts a playlist of intensely cheesy 90s love songs. Spot’s leg immediately stills from where they’ve been kicking each other and Race feels a head rest on his shoulder.

Around the table, the others seem caught up in their own brilliant worlds: Michael is attempting to steal food from Ryan’s plate, Ryan is attempting to steal from Michael’s plate, Jeremy is drawing on Jack’s arm with a pen, and Charlie and Romeo are enthusiastically showing each other pictures of their cats.

“This isn’t such a bad life,” says Spot. “You know that, right?”

Race turns his head to press a kiss to Spot’s forehead. “Life is never bad with this group of band fucks.”

“I wish I could just, like, keep this forever.”

“Me too,” says Race, as Jack tips back his head and laughs and Michael smears mashed potato on Ryan’s face and Romeo flaps his hands at Charlie’s cat. “Me too.”

 

The end of their final band rehearsal slams into Race like a ton of bricks.

“Clear the stage, please,” calls Medda as they’re putting their instruments away. “I want everyone to stick around. Come back once you’re finished disposing of your instruments.”

Jack, Charlie, and Race exchange a look.

They know what it means.

Some of the kids new to the intermediate band are wandering around looking vaguely confused, like they’re not sure what they should be doing. Jack puts his trombone away with record speed and ends up helping two other kids do the same, holding onto various pieces of music or slide grease or anything that deems him useful.

Medda puts them all in a circle when they finally flood onto the stage. They’re a large group, but the circle is tight and almost intimate. Medda’s holding onto a long piece of climber’s bungee cord.

“As you all may or may not know, I’m a traveler. Some might call it a music ambassador. I’m part of a team that brings instruments to communities and music to classrooms across the world. This past year we traveled to six countries, three continents, and in each community we came across I found children. Wide-eyed and passionate about the simple act of making a melody. Each of these kids had a spark in them, just like you.” She lifts the rope. “I kept this with me the entire time. It’s been to Africa. It’s been to South America. This rope has, quite literally, crossed the world. And in each place it’s been to, there’s one thing in common: the music.

“Music is something that connects us, no matter who we are, where we’re from, how old or young or experienced we are. It’s an intrinsic part of humanity. We tell stories with it, put our souls and emotions into creating something so universal, so acceptable, so unique- that’s a legacy, do you understand? We are making something beautiful every single time we breathe in the same air, every time we play. We are making something that will last.”

She approaches the edge of the circle that’s closest, next to a graduate who already has tears running down their face. “I’d like for everybody to please put a hand into the circle.”

Jack puts his left hand into the circle. Race puts his right hand in. They look at each other. Nod.

Medda begins to stretch the rope between them so that each member of the band has a portion in their fist. Standing in the middle of the circle again, she continues: “Tomorrow will be the last time every single person here will be on the stage at the same time. Tomorrow is the last time we all play together. After that, it’s a memory: some of you, I know, will move on to become musicians. Some of you will not. For some of you, this is your last band.”

Race seeks out Santos, whose eyes are wide and full of tears. There are others, too, he knows, for whom this will be their final foray into this wonderful community of music- at least for a while.

“I want you all to be proud of what you’ve been able to accomplish in these two short weeks together,” says Medda. “The work you’ve put in, the commitment- it’s nothing short of magical. Every person here is an extraordinary musician. You’ve taken something weird inked on a piece of paper and turned it into a whole new life. I want you all to never forget what it feels like.”

She produces a pair of scissors. “Take a moment,” she says. “Soak in your surroundings. The music, the friends you’ve made, the memories. They are what connects you.”

And in the silence that follows, she begins to cut.

One between each fist.

One small piece of the same rope, inside which the entirety of camp is stored.

Race takes his piece of rope and holds it tight against his chest.

 

“How are we supposed to dance after that?” asks Jack as they fill into the auditorium seats, preparing for the final faculty performance. His face is streaked with tears and he doesn’t seem to care.

Charlie, on the other side of Race, leans over and says, “Actually, the only reason we dance tonight is so we don’t go to bed crying. You know it would happen.”

He’s absolutely right. No one really wants to admit it out loud.

-

_group: horny teenagers doodle-oot_

_higginzzz: welcome to band camp, nick_  
_russetromeo: fuck I definitely forgot about that_  
_bananna: So did I! Even though last year’s rope is literally on my tuning slide._  
_higginzzz: same. big same. biggest same._  
_NiCK: what the hell kind of initiation was that_  
_NiCK: torture_  
_NiCK: I can’t believe this_  
_higginzzz: did u cry_  
_NiCK: …_  
_NiCK: yes_

__

-

To top it all off, two of the jazz instructors- best friends on and off-stage- bring a ukulele onstage and do a cover of “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” as the penultimate faculty number.

“I _just_ finished crying,” says Jack quietly. “I hate this.”

 

But everything is okay because they finish the faculty recital with a massive piece featuring every single member, plus some- there are some counselors in the background, and their choir instructor looks like she’s throwing her entire heart and soul into the castanets she’s been given. Everyone’s on their feet, dancing, even that one group of theatre kids who usually look like they’d rather be anywhere but there.

-

_Zooming in on the choir instructor and her castanets, so far the video becomes pixelated. Caption: this is what life should look like for all of us, fellas_

-

The bass of 2000s pop echoes through the hallway down to the black box. It’s still relatively empty, most campers lined up at the water fountain or hanging around by the bulletin boards instead of entering right away. Race leans against the dark brick, waiting.

“Hey,” says Spot, smiling as he approaches. “You look lonely. Mind some company?”

“Actually,” Race replies, “I’m waiting for someone. You might know him; short, loud, kind of an idiot, calls himself my boyfriend?”

Spot’s eyebrows scrunch to the bridge of his nose. “Ah, you’re waiting for Jack,” he jokes. “Well, don’t let me distract you.”

Race catches Spot’s sleeve as he moves again. “Let’s change _kind of an idiot_ to _biggest idiot I know._ Does that ring any bells?”

“Mmm. Perhaps.”

“Well, when you see him, let me know. I want to ask him to dance.”

Spot goes quiet. He tilts his head, pursing his lips in the smallest of smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I think,” he says slowly, “that this boyfriend in question would definitely accept a dance. Maybe even two. Or three.”

“Three dances!” Race exclaims, theatrically impressed. “Is this the man of my dreams?”

“Only if you’ve dreamed about me,” says Spot smoothly, winking. “I think I hear _Call Me Maybe._ Want to feel like the biggest dumbass on the planet?”

“More than anything.”

Spot grabs his hand and drags him down the hallway, pausing only so they can slip off their shoes before plunging into the colourfully-lit black box theatre and kicking off their evening.

 

Race isn’t an idiot. He knows that whatever he has with Spot is fleeting. This is a summer camp romance, a whirlwind of emotions that have been put on double speed in order to fit the timeline. He knows that after this, they’ll return to their respective homes, live their respective lives, maybe text. Maybe call.

But there’s always the possibility of tomorrow. The day after that, the day after that, and on and on- if they can figure out their lives, see how they fit together from different cities and different colleges and different careers, maybe there’s hope.

He’s watching Spot scream the lyrics to _Hooked on a Feeling_ and it feels like they’re the only two people left on Earth, right there in that crowded, adrenaline-filled room. Nothing else matters.

Race feels that sliver of hope grow with each passing minute.

 

Jack and Charlie join them in the middle of _Mamma Mia,_ excitable to no end. Charlie mostly leans against the wall and participates in enthusiastic singing with the occasional headbang, but he does end up on the floor a few times, wiggling to the beat with the rest of them. Also on the playlist is _Cadillac Ranch_ \- a natural- and something Jack swears at before anyone else realizes it’s Justin Bieber.

 _“White people music,”_ he says in a tight voice before fleeing the room to get water.

At some point in the evening, most of the campers create a massive circle in the centre of the room, joining hands and just hopping- until Stone enters the room, waving a fluorescent orange feather boa and a rainbow parachute.

The rainbow parachute is spread between those who can actually grab hold of it. Some people slide underneath, taking advantage of the breeze it creates when they swing it to the beat. One of the jazz kids manages to pop his head out of the hole in the middle. It reminds Race of a groundhog.

His fingers slip off the parachute for the fifth time, and he turns to Spot, having the same problem, and yells, _“I’ve never felt more alive!”_

Spot nods enthusiastically. _“Me neither!”_

Someone on the other side of him, who Race swears he’s never had a conversation with, says, _“Same!”_

And it’s band camp, so it’s not even weird.

 

It feels like _Don’t Stop Believin’_ starts playing far too early. It’s right on time as it always is, though, signaling the end of the dance. The parachute circle has split back into the scattered groups all over the room, and joining the four of them is Spot’s roommates as well as Anna and her own roommates, dancing wildly as usual.

There’s something about the piano track in the song that makes Race feel like he’s flying. Every single person in the room is singing, to the point where many of them will have no voice tomorrow- but no one really cares. It’s the unifying factor of the band camp dances, and it’s the only time, he thinks, where everyone truly encompasses the message of the song.

“Have a good night, everyone!” says Scratch over the microphone as the song fades out. People are still singing. There’s a crowd by the door. It’s all a bit of a mess, but it’s the kind of mess that no one wants to get out of.

Jack leans backwards on the door to the courtyard and sighs loudly when it opens, exposing them all to the cool air of the nighttime. Anna and Prue race by, shoes hanging off the tips of their fingers, laughter carrying up to the stars.

Tilting a smile at Jack, Race says, “I can’t believe this is how it ends.”

“Don’t think of it as ending, old friend,” says Jack, wise beyond his years. “This is just another movement.”  
-

_“How to Buzz: with Jack!”_

_The camera wobbles as they walk down the path. Jack’s lips are pressed tight and he’s spitting rather than buzzing, but he’s trying, really- from somewhere off-camera, Race laughs. “You’re doing great.”_

_“Thank you. This is really hard.”_

_Spot: “You play a brass instrument.”_

_“Yeah, but that’s like-” Jack blows air loosely through his lips in an easy buzz. “I’m trying to emulate the french horn style.”_

_A steady buzz sounds from above the camera. Race._

_“Show-off.” The camera shakes, and Race falls into the grass._

-

“We’re having a sleepover in Charlie’s room and this is non-negotiable,” says Race as soon as they get back to the apartment. “Gather your bedding. Your pillows. The cushions from the couch. We’re going to be comfortable as fuck and it’s going to be good.”

Charlie pokes his head out of his bedroom. “Why was I not informed of this?”

“’Cause I just decided it right now at this very moment. Jack, did you hear? Charlie’s having a party!”

Jack appears on the landing of the stairs wearing exclusively boxers and his binder, holding his water bottle in one hand and looking for all the world like a disgruntled dad who’s just been woken up. “This sounds like the best idea you’ve ever had, Racetrack.”

Silently acquiescing, Charlie starts moving things off his floor. The beds are twin, barely enough for one person, so Race and Jack will likely be on the floor for the night, supported exclusively by a blanket pile and couch cushions. It’s not the worst setup possible but Race knows that he won’t get a lot of sleep.

But that’s to be expected, given the three of them.

It’s midnight. Jack is facing Race, holding his phone in such a way that Race can’t see what’s on the screen. “I need… a vegetable.”

“Exactly four parsnips,” says Charlie from the bed. “No more, no less.”

Jack mutters it as he types. “Okay, cool… ooh, this one’s good. A really embarrassing secret you might reveal at a weak moment. Such as, I’m Afraid of Sausages.”

They’re silent for a moment. “The earth is flat, change my mind?” suggests Race.

“Good one. Something precious?”

“Your heart.”

“Gotcha.” Jack types for a little longer, and then hits a button and immediately starts giggling. “Guys, the screenplay’s called Sloppy Blobs. This is already the best thing we’ve ever done, I can feel it.”

-

_Dark screen. Jack is mumbling a dramatic reading of the generated script Sloppy Blobs, complete with quiet sound effects from Charlie._

_Caption: mad libs: our final adieu to this place called home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT GUYS. I don't know if I'm prepared. 
> 
> I'm sorry about the wait for this one, really (I say this every time, don't I) March was a crazy month for me but I got to see a play that I wrote performed live onstage! it was definitely the coolest thing ever. 
> 
> anyway, since we've got one more chapter I feel obligated to let you know that I'm looking for new ideas literally anytime so if you feel like it, hit up my tumblr @impalahallows or comment! I've got one more (definitely multichapter) au in the works that was prompted to me probably about a year ago but maybe I'll try my hand at some oneshots? apparently I can't write short things, so. there's that. 
> 
> let me know the good, the bad, maybe not the ugly but you do you! thanks for reading! x


	13. With Friends Like Ours (Anywhere is Home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun rises on sixty strangers, common only in music.
> 
> The sun sets on sixty bandmates, sixty friends, sixty family members. 
> 
> (One whose name Race forgot a long time ago and hasn't had the courage to ask since.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long month, guys. Welcome to the end.
> 
> chapter title from Another Night on Mars by The Maine!

Race wakes up on a hard surface with his legs pinned to the ground and he panics for exactly two seconds before remembering where he is.

The couch cushions he and Jack had been lying on earlier in the night were spread across the floor, a significant space between them. Race’s hips, shoulders, and half of his legs were on the floor between the two cushions, his head propped up on a cushion and a pillow. Jack is spooning his legs.

It’s too dark out to be morning. Race readjusts his pillow, sliding the cushion underneath his ribs- careful not to wake up Jack, quite comfortably cuddling his knees- and tries to fall back asleep.

 

Under his head, his phone vibrates, and it continues to do so until Race swipes his hand across the screen without looking at it and accidentally answers a phone call.

 _“Tony?”_ says a voice, muffled through his pillow.

“Shit,” Race mutters. He shoves himself up with one hand, carefully extricating his legs from Jack’s happy grasp, and pulling his phone out from the pillow. Getting up is a bit dizzying, if only from tiredness, and Race puts his phone to his ear and says, “Give me a sec, mom.”

The floor is squeaky as all hell. If there’s something Race will miss, it will not be this.

Finally, after a little bit of maneuvering and gentle stepping, Race slips out of the room and sits on one of the wooden dining chairs. “It’s seven in the morning, mom.”

_“I know, love. But this is important.”_

He’s not getting the doom-vibes that usually come alongside bad news, so he’s left with more of a curious- albeit slightly uneasy- feeling curling in his stomach. “What is it?”

_“A letter came for you in the mail. I hope you don’t mind that I opened it.”_

 

7:15 sees Jack emerging from the room, headed to the bathroom until he notices Race sitting at the table, staring across the room.

“Race?” he asks quietly, voice still rough from sleep.

“Jack,” Race says, equally soft. He’s still cradling his phone in his fingers, though the screen is off.

There’s a long silence between the two of them. Jack shuffles in the middle of the hallway, tracing a path in the wood with his sock. “Do you want me to get Crutchie?”

“That would be cool of you, thanks.”

So Jack disappears back into the bedroom.

He and Charlie reappear moments later. “Race?” Charlie asks, eyebrows scrunched together. “What’s wrong?”

Race turns his phone over in his hand and picks at the corner of the case. “My mom just called. She, uh, she gave me some news.”

“You’re being horribly unspecific,” says Jack.

“Remember that performing arts college up in Canada?” Race says. He lifts his face to look at them both fully for the first time. “I got in.”

There’s a moment to process, and then Jack drops his jaw and says with a wide grin, “Race, holy crap!”

“That’s amazing!” says Charlie. “Isn’t it?”

Because Race is still looking vaguely shocked, responding only with a half-smile, barely present. He runs a hand down his face, landing on his chin. “Of course it is,” he says. “I’m ecstatic. But- _Canada.”_

“Canada,” Jack repeats. He droops a little. “Yeah, that’s far.”

“It’s up, though, isn’t it? Not, like, on the other side of the continent.” Charlie slips into the chair next to Race, quiet and solid. “So you won’t be too far away. If you accept it.”

Race laughs, a little surprised. “Of course I’m accepting it. It’s all I wanted. I just never thought I’d actually get in.”

“That’s dumb,” Charlie says succinctly. “You’re more than talented and definitely a top contender. I’d be more surprised if they weren’t falling over themselves to get you in their program.”

“Thanks, Crutch.”

The heavy tension has dissipated, leaving Race- still sleep-addled from the sudden call- to yawn, blink, and realize what the morning entails. It’s their last morning, which means they need to pack up their rooms and get everything cleared out before breakfast at 8:00.

He drops his phone on the table and stretches, softly smiling. “That makes today even more special, doesn’t it? The Three Amigos make their final stand.”

“Sounds like an action movie,” Jack agrees. “Let’s celebrate. Boys, we’re having the best final concert _ever."_

 

Jack puts on his 80s playlist and blasts it on his wireless speaker, tucked in the corner of the staircase so it’s broadcasting to the whole apartment. Every so often something is tossed over the railing _(“Which one of you fuckers put your shirt in my closet?”)_ or dropped _(“I’m pretty sure that shook the house.”)_ and they make a lot of noise.

Race tries in vain to pack everything exactly how it was when they arrived, but somehow- only having acquired one shirt and a band folder- nothing fits in his suitcase anymore.

“Don’t forget your band clothes,” Jack says in the doorway, pointing his toothbrush at Race. “The counselors get mad if you have to break into the luggage room to get them when you forget at the final concert. Trust me.”

“I’m well aware,” says Race, who distinctly remembers the year Jack had to clean the cafeteria trays for the entire table of counselors in exchange for his band clothes. He slaps his legs. “Got my blacks.”

Jack nods and disappears, as he does. Cryptid.

Race picks up this year’s band shirt. It’s red, with a cheesy phrase on the back alongside the sponsors. From four years of camp, this is the brightest- and he’s excited to decorate it with signatures from every single person he’s met. This year, he’s even brought his own markers.

“Jack!” shouts Charlie from downstairs. “Get your food out of the fridge!”

“Where am I supposed to put it?”

“In your stomach? I don’t know! We’re not leaving it here!”

 

Stone agrees to drive Charlie to the music building so he doesn’t have to drag his luggage on the walk. He does not, however, give Jack and Race the same offer.

Jack and Race are not having a good time.

-

_“How are you even holding your phone, holy moly. I literally don’t have hands right now.”_

_Jack is dragging a suitcase behind him and bracing a roll of bedding across his shoulders, staring at Race like Race has somehow betrayed him._

_The clock sticker on the video says: 07:51_

-

Breakfast is a melancholy affair. They return their keys at the desk in front of the cafeteria, pick up their last breakfast (lard balls and French toast, Race’s favourite, smothered in whipped cream in blueberries) and sit at their now-usual table with a series of sighs.

“Man,” Jack says. “I never thought I’d miss this crappy cafeteria food.”

“For the last goddamn time, Jack, the French toast is amazing. You just can’t taste for shit.”

“I’m tasting shit from your attitude.”

“Relax, boys,” says Charlie. “We’re having a good morning, remember? Final stand, Rock This World, yadda yadda yadda?”

Jack elbows him. “You know what happens when I’m sad.”

“You cry?” guesses Race. Jack levels him a _look,_ which disperses quickly when the rest of their table appears. Michael and Ryan are already wearing their concert clothes. Spot and Jeremy are not.

Spot steals one of Race’s blueberries. “Final day, huh?”

“I hate this,” Race sighs. “It was so much fun before, knowing we’d come back. I don’t even know if I’ll be on this campus again.”

Spot frowns. He throws the blueberry in his hand back at Race. “Where’s all your happy? You told me, like, three days ago that you were gonna apply for a counselor position as soon as you were eligible.”

There’s a bit of silence. Jack raises his eyebrow at Race.

“Yeah, well,” says Race, biting the bullet, “I’m going to college in Canada, so.”

“Canada?” Ryan says, as Michael says, “What? Why?”

Spot, bless his soul, is quiet and gently curious about it all. “When did you find out?”

“This morning. Apparently my mom likes opening my mail.”

“You want to be there?”

Race laughs. “Hell yeah. It’s got one of the best performing arts programs in the country. Super competitive.”

Spot smiles at him. The look is proud and a little sad, mirroring the way Race has been feeling since he woke up: pride in himself, excited for the future, sad about what he might be leaving behind. “Congratulations.”

And then Juniper breathes on the cafeteria microphone, and the morning rush begins.

 

After warm-ups, the band gets the first slot of dress rehearsal time. Medda stands on the podium, commanding attention with a sweep of her arms, and regards the band with a grin. “Good morning, everybody.”

“Good morning, Miss Medda,” most of the band replies automatically.

“We don’t have long today. We’ll do our usual tone warm-up, then go through our pieces in reverse concert order. You should all remember your numbers by now.”

The rehearsal goes so quickly, particularly in comparison to their two-hour evening rehearsals, that’s over before Race can even think. They’re prepared. They’re always prepared, especially at the end of two intensive weeks. It’s a strong year.

They clear the stage, rehearse for choir _(“You’ll stand out if you’re not doing our lovely dance moves,” says the choir director, after they finish going over their stupid and amazing steps for Eye of the Tiger)_ and then it’s 11:00.

Two hours until lunch.

-

_They’re crowded around a table in the Forum, watching Jack, who is reading a story dramatically from his phone._

_“Jerry gulped,” says Jack, with a long, significant pause. “He was not ready for Donald McRonald.”_

_“Literary genius,” Race whispers. Caption: Papa Jack’s Story Time_

-

“Right.” Jack rips the piece of paper in his hands until he’s holding two large handfuls of paper confetti. “We’re in business, boys.”

Using backpacks and their old music stand name tags, they’ve created a rec activity of their own: floor-tile hopscotch. With a twist.

Jack shifts half of his confetti pile into Race’s waiting hands. “Go forth and distribute the confetti, my good man.” They hop into the square that’s been charted out by various backpacks and start tossing the paper.

“Do we have a way to clean this up?” asks Spot. He’s existing on the sidelines with his roommates, who joined them sometime before the end of Sloppy Blobs.

Jack shrugs, making an _ehhh_ sound at the back of his throat. “We have hands. And functioning legs, mostly.”

“I resent you,” says Charlie.

The game is simple: cross the stretch of tile. Two-point contact at all times. Don’t touch the confetti. If Jack hits you with the tennis ball, don’t fall over.

Jack hits Race with the tennis ball. Race falls over.

“How did we make this game?” he asks on his third try, manoeuvering like a slow human windmill across the floor. “It’s, like, impossible.”

A tennis ball flies past his face, going towards Jack instead of from Jack, and Race looks up to see Spot with outstretched hands. He puts them up defensively. “Don’t ask me. You chuckleheads are full of good ideas.”

 _“The Blast-O Ukulele Contraption,”_ Jack and Charlie whisper in perfect synchronization.

Race takes another step, reaches out, and twists until his hand is splayed flat across the next tile. “Shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t see my fucking feet.”

“I’ll guide you,” Spot says, hurrying to the other side of the area. “Okay, left foot- down, down, wait no not that far, okay- left. Left a little more. Just your toe-”

Jack makes an air-horn noise on his phone.

“I said your toe, not your whole foot!”

 

Two-point contact includes crutches, and Charlie gets it in one try.

-

_“They looked at each other,” Jack pauses again, “with salty feelings, like two crooked, crispy climate change supporters crunching at Uncle Jimmy’s Bi-Annual Spring Rampage.”_

_“Who put Jack in charge of mad libs?” asks Spot._

_“Shh.”_

_Jack continues: “It had snazzy jazz playing in the background and two poor, poor uncles ba-honking to the beat. Ooh, ba-honking. That was a good verb choice.”_

_“Thanks. I made it myself.”_

-

The campus convenience store is open, so they buy ice cream treats.

After ten minutes of absolutely devouring said ice cream treats, Anna and Nori appear, scanning the Forum intently.

“You guys seen Sydney anywhere?” Anna asks. She pokes at the pile of abandoned wrappers on the table and frowns, like she should have thought of buying ice cream as well.

“Sydney?” Race asks before he can help himself.

Anna stares at him. “My roommate. Euphonium. You literally have had conversations with her before.”

Race’s brain short-circuits and he says, “Oh my God, _Prue.”_

“What?”

His ears are flaring up again because _damn it_ if he can’t catch a break. “I may have forgotten her name,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “and called her Prue for two weeks straight.”

Anna’s eyebrows crease. “She’s been answering to Prue for two weeks?”

“Yeah?”

“Dang it! You should have told me earlier. That’s her third name in as many weeks. I swear to God.”

Nori, Jack, and Charlie share a glance that holds a load of barely-contained laughter. Anna sighs. “Trying again: have you seen my asshole of a roommate anywhere, going by any name she possibly can just to spite me for accidentally calling her Zoe last month? I was tired. I had just been talking to a Zoe. You absolutely cannot blame me.”

Race definitely understands the lengths a best friend will go to for spite, so he hooks his thumb over his shoulder and says, “Down the hallway with the plants, I think.”

“Thanks. If you need a refresher, I’m Anna. That’s Nori.” Nori waves happily.

“I knew that,” says Race, “I swear.”

 

Race puts on his formal band shirt, remembers he still has one more opportunity to spill food all over himself, and takes it off again. 

Lunchtime.

 

It’s chicken and beans, which, okay. Not the best last meal, not the worst last meal, but a solid middle ground that Race can respect. He’s sitting cramped at the table, backpack at his feet, Jack on one side of him and Charlie on the other. Every time he picks up his fork, he bumps into Jack’s elbow.

Jack doesn’t seem to care today, and neither does Race. He stares across the table at Spot and his roommates, looks to his right to see Romeo and Spencer laughing at the head of the table, finds Anna and ~~Prue~~ Sydney on the other end.

 _What a life,_ his mind says.

And then Juniper says, “You guys know what time it is,” and Jack’s face _drops_ and Race braces himself for the whistling that will inevitably float through the cafeteria speakers.

 

_You know I can’t smile without you_  
_Can’t smile without you_  
_I can’t laugh, and I can’t sing,_  
_I’m finding it hard to do anything._  
_You see, I feel sad when you’re sad_  
_I feel glad when you’re glad_  
_If you only knew what I’m going through_  
_I just can’t smile without you._

 

Every single person in the cafeteria is swaying or otherwise moving to the music. It’s late 70s Barry Manilow, but it’s a camp tradition that flows through Race’s blood, and he finds himself crying before the words even start.

Juniper, in an attempt to keep the spirit high in the room, calls out every single key change in the song (there’s three) and tries to play off the roughness of her own voice.

Jack reaches out and grabs Race’s hand. “Racetrack, you motherfucker, I love you.”

“Jack, you absolute bastard child, I love you too.” He turns to Charlie, who is mirroring his expression of premature grief, and says, “Crutchie, light of my life, you are literally the best person I’ve ever known.”

“I disagree,” Charlie says, and Race prepares to hear a rebuttal in his favour until Charlie finishes, “Jack is.”

“Fuck off, Crutch,” Jack replies weakly. “I love you so goddamn much.”

The pair of them start singing after the second key change. Race stares across the table, making eye contact with a puffy-eyed Spot, and mouths: _Thank you for existing._

Spot smiles at him, slightly broken but no less adoring, and replies: _Anything for you._

They sing the final verse of the song together, and then they dissolve.

 

Race puts on his formal band shirt. He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, scrubs some cold water over his face, and waits.

He looks older. Mature, somehow.

Like he’s ready for the future.

 

The concert starts at 2:00, so they have an hour to warm up and prepare. Their instruments are stashed in the black box, as they were in last week’s concert, so Race drops his backpack and pulls out his shirt and sharpie.

“Sign my shirt!” he screams at the room. A few people hear him, and some wander over.

He and Jack spend the next hour running around trying to gather as many signatures as possible – including those from the counselors and people Race has never spoken to in all two weeks he’s existed at camp. Jeremy writes _stay zesty_ on his sleeve. Charlie gives him a Beatles quote down his side. Kiwi draws a kiwi bird eating a kiwi fruit. It takes her five minutes.

Race also draws out the tallies on the back of his shirt.

_toe shoes: 4_  
_caffeine: 27_  
_“fuckin’ wild”: 23_  
_lard balls: 8.5_

Then, for good measure, he writes _Socked Crusaders_ along the bottom.

 

After that, it’s kind of a blur. Warming up, lining up, doing their choir pieces in front of a decently-sized audience – if Race really thinks about it, he can’t remember much other than the sound of his own heartbeat. Not too fast, not erratic, but calm and steady; it reminds him that he’s built for performance.

They collect their instruments, fill in the wings of the auditorium backstage, and Juniper announces their band. They file onto the stage. Race empties his horn’s spit valve for the third time in five minutes. He’s not nervous, but extra, untapped energy radiates from his tapping foot and key-clicking.

Medda regards them all with an almost motherly look, warmth almost tangible in her gaze, and she raises her baton.

Their first song is _The Incredibles._ Any feeling of doubt Race had evaporates as soon as he hits the entirety of the first riff perfectly. Then he does it again, and then again. He’s never felt so powerful.

Halfway through the song, during a rest, he glances down at his section. They’re all gearing up for the high part, flushed and breathless and absolutely glowing. _Euphoria._

And then it’s done. One down, three to go.

God, time moves fast.

 

Their second song is the most difficult song Race has ever played. It’s classical, six pages, and fast.

That makes the success of the piece even sweeter. He only misses two notes in all six pages, and that’s the best that he could have asked for.

 

Third is the lyrical piece. Mostly clarinets. It’s significantly less intensive playing-wise, but instead of letting his mind wander, Race thinks about the piece itself.

He plays an E and thinks about spending time with Jack in the practice room, plopping out loud and dissonant melodies on the piano. He pulls it easily up to a B, slipping his eyes closed as the music swells ever so slightly, and thinks about fake candles and frozen grapes and lying on the floor, thinks about late nights on the landing of the apartment, talking, thinks about the red felt of the auditorium seats and watching his life unfold.

The last note of that song feels kind of like a sigh.

 

And then it’s their grand finale: Race’s favourite piece, something with killer horn parts and an ending that could very well be the final track to the score of his life. There’s motion at the beginning, like it’s building up to something more important than he can explain. There’s the baritone saxes in the fast part, a seven-bar rest that Race has drawn a **:D** beside because the sound shakes the ceiling.

There’s the theme, played by the horns, soaring and oh-so-beautiful.

There’s the lift to the ending. Race takes a deep breath in time with the band and stands, as they’ve been instructed: no more hiding behind music stands and marked-up sheets.

This is Race, at the end of band camp, finishing adolescence with a perfect F.

 

The hallway outside the auditorium is a bit of a mess, but they manage. Race finds a quiet spot down by the closed information desk and calls his mom.

 _“All done?”_ his mom says. _“That wasn’t long.”_

“Not too bad, I guess. We’re gonna say goodbye for a bit, and then Jack’s taking us home. I’ll be back around nine, probably?”

_“Tell Jack to drive safe. I’ll leave some food out for you boys, all right? All three of you are thin as sticks.”_

Race laughs. “Sounds good. Love you.”

_“You too, poco cavolino.”_

He hangs up and leans against the wall, shoving his phone back in his pocket. A few paces away, one of the jazz kids is excitedly showing their parents the space, undoubtedly going through different rec events and things that happened.

“Hey,” says a voice next to him. Race doesn’t even need to turn around. It’s Spot.

“Hey,” he replies.

Spot stuffs his hands in his pockets, bending his knees and bouncing. “So. You happy?”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure,” Spot says lamely. “Everything, I guess. Camp? Our songs? University?”

Race looks at Spot. There’s a red ring around his lips, right where his mouthpiece should be. His eyes are bright, the top two buttons of his shirt are loose, and he’s tracing patterns on the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I think I’m happy,” Race says, slowly, carefully. “Are you?”

Spot doesn’t even need to think. “Yeah.” A smile stretches across his face.

Neither of them want to acknowledge the potent truth. That after this, it’s nothing – just lives, stretching out beyond the small confines of a small college campus housing a couple hundred small music students. There’s no guarantee they’ll make it work.

“Canada, huh?” Spot says. “That sounds like fun.”

Race huffs, amused. It’s so hesitant, so obvious that they’re skating over the real question. “I’ll be busy,” he says, “but I will absolutely call.”

Spot stares him down and says, “You’d better.”

And then they’re quiet for a little bit, watching as campers say goodbye – some only for a short time, some maybe for the last time.

“Hey, Race?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope we last.”

And Spot’s eyes are wide and earnest, his face betraying every single emotion he’s been allowing himself to feel, and in the middle of it all, clear as day, is hope. Trust. Assurance.

Race wants to kiss him.

So he leans in, his question for permission flowing out in a quiet whisper.

“Of course, you fucking idiot,” Spot breathes, and he closes the distance between them.

 

They say goodbye to the counselors together, fingers intertwined. Every one of the counselors is surprised but supportive when Race reveals his conquest of Canada, and Spot- the smart asshole that he is- is going to some prestigious science university. Like a genius.

Race spots Nori at the end of the hallway and she salutes them both, a crooked grin spreading across her face. She’s the kind of person, Race thinks, that could take on the world and win.

Romeo approaches them a few minutes later, with Anna and Nick in tow. “Since you’re the only one graduating, we thought we’d give you a proper goodbye,” he says.

He, Anna, and Nick each surround him: hands on his shoulders, one on his chest. “Three, two, one,” says Romeo, and then they all go, “Horn Power!” and make _pschhh_ noises as they burst away from him, wiggling their fingers.

“I have no idea what the hell that was,” Race says, “but thank you so much.”

“Anytime,” says Anna. “Stay tuned on the groupchat for daily music memes and pictures of my cat.”

Next, it’s Jeremy, Michael, and Ryan, who seem to gravitate towards them as they talk to a series of different people. Spot hugs each one of them in turn.

“Thanks for showing us the thermostat, bro,” Jeremy tells Race. “That was revolutionary.”

“You would have figured it out,” Race replies. Jeremy shrugs, not at all convinced.

Michael and Ryan stick around and they talk about nothing for a little bit. Ryan’s found them all on social media already, so it’s not the last time they’ll ever speak. They look content, and Race wonders idly if they’re feeling the same sort of separation as he and Spot. He hopes they’ll be okay.

“I hear my dad,” Michael says. “Race, it was lovely meeting you. And being friends with you. Oh, shit, did I ever give you the shovel talk?”

Ryan drags him away, laughing, before he can continue.

And then it’s just them and Jack and Charlie, lingering off to the side, politely giving them space.

“See you soon, horn boy,” Spot says. He tilts his head up, quirking his lips. “Kiss for safe travels?”

Race kisses him again. Jack and Charlie are hooting in the background. He’s holding Spot’s hands, swirling circles into his skin with his thumbs. The sun is coming in through the windows. The sky is blue.

He’s happy.

-

_“We’re putting on Les Mis again and you will absolutely not argue with me.”_

_“Crutch, what is it with you and historical musicals? I still don’t know the plot of Great Comet and you literally made me a PowerPoint explaining it. That other one you showed me about, what, dancing boys yelling about the news? YouTube suggests it to me every week like clockwork. I blame you.”_

_“I dunno. I just think they’re neat.”_

-

_A video. First, it features Charlie, scream-singing along to his historical musical, evening sunshine lighting up his face. His eyes are shut and the window is open. The breeze plays with his hair._

_Next, it’s Jack. Driving, he’s alternating between watching the empty stretch of road and watching Charlie. There’s a look of quiet fondness spread across his face, peaceful and vulnerable and absolutely loving._

_Caption: sometimes, realizing you’re growing up isn’t so bad at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [exhales loudly] wow.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everybody. Seriously. It's been a time - some may even say, a good time.  
> BUT IT'S NOT OVER! Notice the 13/14?? There's an epilogue!! Surprise!!!! It's already done, so it'll come out next week sometime (I PROMISE). While this fic is done for me, it absolutely is not done for you! What a joyous occasion.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3V_7-7myPxM Can't Smile Without You (Barry Manilow, 1978)
> 
> and the list of songs they play in band, in order, if you're curious:  
> The Incredibles (arr. Jay Bocook): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qm-6Bf2siNc  
> Danzon no. 2 (arr. Oliver Nickel): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmAkjVgm42s  
> With Each Sunset (Comes the Promise of a New Day): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUyl9WXxAjg  
> To Be Vivid Stars: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUyl9WXxAjg
> 
> thanks again for reading! I hope this is a suitable pseudo-ending. I'll be honest, writing the last line did make me emotional. it's a weird sort of thing.
> 
> don't be afraid to grow up, everyone.


	14. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conversation with: spot<3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy epilogue, everybody.

October. 2 and a half months after camp. Toronto, Ontario.

-

_Saturday, 09:35_   
_spot <3: wake up sleepyhead_   
_spot <3: alarm alarm alarm alarm alarm_   
_spot <3: ‘I’m too lazy to set an alarm,’ he says_   
_spot <3: ‘just wake me up by texting me,’ he says_   
_spot <3: racetrack higgins you utter bastard wake the fuck up_   
_spot <3: i’m gonna get real tired of this real soon_   
_spot <3: race_   
_spot <3: race_   
_spot <3: race_   
_spot <3: race_

_higginzzz: snooze me_

_spot <3: not a chance_

_higginzzz: 5 mins?_

_spot <3: in your fuckin dreams boyo_   
_spot <3: wake up. you’re excited for things. or so you said._   
_spot <3: what things, idk, because you’re being painfully closeted about the whole thing_

_higginzzz: oh! Jack & crutch are coming up today_   
_higginzzz: i literally just forgot to tell u i promise, no funny biz_

_spot <3: sure_

_higginzzz: spottyyyyyyyy_

_spot <3: :I_

_higginzzz: >:(_

_spot <3: sigh_   
_spot <3: I love you_

_higginzzz: :D_

_spot: …I take it back_

_higginzzz: D:_

_spot <3: when are they getting in?_

_higginzzz: 3 hours. I think._

_spot <3: better speed up, lazybones_   
_spot <3: god knows you oversleep too often_

_higginzzz: what can i say, it’s a fatal flaw_

_spot <3: text me when you’re ready. no earlier. that’s your morning motivation!_

_higginzzz: ;3_

 

-

_12:46_   
_higginzzz: airport airport airport_

_spot <3: you’re lucky it’s a Saturday_   
_spot <3: some of us have classes_

_higginzzz: fuck u it’s thanksgiving_

_spot <3: you’re not Canadian._

_higginzzz: i’m in canada that’s close enough_

_spot <3: traitor_

_higginzzz: sexy_

_spot <3: blocked. reported. to the white house._

_higginzzz: :’0_   
_higginzzz: so their flight just turned green does that mean they’re here_

_spot <3: you’re a dumbass and I love you_   
_spot <3: yes it does. keep your eyes up idiot_   
_spot <3: say hello to them for me. particularly jack the bastard_

_higginzzz: <3_

-

_“a-maize-ing”, a YouTube post by Tony Fuckin’ Higgins_

_“So we’re in the corn maze, there’s a lot of mud, and we’re halfway through so we decided to vlog.”_

_“I’m going for a sort of bog-goblin look here,” says Jack, showcasing a burgundy sweater and black jeans already streaked with mud._

_Charlie: “A tired university student? That’s me anyway.”_

_“And I,” Race says, swinging the camera down, “am a tech gremlin as usual.” Jack laughs. “Anyway, we’re here to get lost, and we got through the first half far too quickly. Guess we’ll have fun with this one.”_

-

_“Give us a path, O Fearless Leader!” says Charlie at an intersection._

_“Who’s fearless leader?” Both Jack and Charlie turn to look at Race. “Oh, shit, it me? Fuck. Uh, left.”_

-

_A wide shot on top of a bridge, showcasing a field of corn as far as the eye can see. Also, Jack, with his leg on the railing because why the hell not._

-

_“Aha!” Race yells. “A cornhole!”_

_A cornhole is, simply put, a small dead end that’s perfectly person-sized. Race hides in it, absolutely not blending in with black clothes and a fluorescent orange beanie._

_Charlie adopts an announcer voice. “Here we have a Racetrack in his natural habitat… he says hello to a spider… fascinating.”_

-

_They’re in a ~~clearing~~ crop circle._

_“ALIENS!” Race screams, adopting an ultimate power stance. “TAKE US AWAY, BOYS!”_

_“Bring us home!” shouts Jack, next to him._

_“ABDUCT US!”_

_“Pshew! Pshew! Pshew!”_

_“The aliens…” Race’s camera, pointing at the sky. “They’re coming for you. And you!” he points at Jack, and then at Charlie. “And YOU!”_

-

_“Bees! Bees! Bees! Bees! Bees! Bees! Bees! Bees!”_

-

_Jack has control of the camera. Race is in the background, on the phone. “He’s calling his roommate,” Charlie says. “Not that his roommate is going to help us escape this cornstalk hell.”_

_“Actually,” Jack says, “his roommate is going to come descending from the heavens like the crop-circle aliens.”_

_Charlie makes a hand motion and begins to sing. Race chooses that moment to approach again, already talking: “I told him we were lost and he had the gall to tell me that it’s our fault for trying to get lost. No, idiot, we’re actually lost, not just theoretically lost. He hung up on me.”_

-

_“What if we have to stay here overnight?”_

_“I have water,” Charlie says. “And we can eat the corn.”_

_“None of this corn is ripe.”_

_“You’ve eaten worse.”_

-

_“Do you think we could use a compass?”_

-

_More walking. Charlie is on Jack’s shoulders, trying to see the way out. It doesn’t work._

-

_“We’ve been lost for seventeen years. Somehow we haven’t grown older. I think it’s part of the corn maze magic. The last soul we encountered was so long ago we can’t remember their face or how they fared. Will we make it? Will we survive? Is there any hope for these three lost travelers?”_

_“Race, stop being needlessly dramatic.”_

_“Fuck you. This drama is absolutely necessary.”_

-

_Jack and Charlie are side by side, backs against the corn. “Ready?” Jack says. He counts off. “MARCO!”_

_A pause, and then quietly, in the distance: “Polo!”_

_“Guess we’re going right.”_

-

_Race runs up to Jack, who is whispering above himself to Charlie. “Garbage boy,” he’s saying. “Garbage boy. Stink man.”_

-

_The end is in sight. They’re singing Pomp and Circumstance, badly. Charlie is practically enveloping Jack’s head from where he’s perched on his shoulders._

-

_“Thus ends the adventures of the Three Amigos in the corn maze.” Race is watching Jack as he does star-jumps on the outdoor trampoline. “Was it difficult? Yes. Did we get lost? Yes. But maybe the real treasure is the friendship we found along the way.”_

_“That’s bull,” says Charlie, leaning against the fence clutching his water. “My legs hurt.”_

_“At least Jack’s having fun.”_

_The camera zooms in on Jack and his superior face as he completes yet another mediocre jump, surrounded by seven-year-olds._

-

_Sunday, 02:07_   
_higginzzz: youtube.com/watch?v=w5#58sgIjHg)9f_   
_higginzzz: u’ll like the pun_

 

_10:56_   
_spot <3: knowing that you stayed up to an ungodly hour to finish that makes it worse_   
_spot <3: and by worse I mean better_   
_spot <3: also, a-maize-ing? I’m disowning you_

_higginzzz: u love me_

_spot <3: …_

_higginzzz: yyep_

_spot <3: ,,,,_

_higginzzz: don’t make me break out the frowny face_

_spot <3: fine. love you too, asshole_   
_spot <3: I take it you dorks had fun_

_higginzzz: the most fun ever_

_spot <3: good!_

 

_12:03_   
_spot <3: is the maze open next weekend_

_higginzzz: yeah it’s here till the end of the month_

_spot <3: are you open next weekend_

_higginzzz: …yes_   
_higginzzz: you’re plotting_   
_higginzzz: scheming, if u will_   
_higginzzz: what’s going on O Lovely Boyfriend_

_spot <3: nothing_

 

_12:17_   
_spot <3: clear your schedule. I have plane tickets._

_higginzzz: i love you, conlon._

_spot <3: gross. I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this far and feeling these feelings with me! posting this feels like the end of a lifetime, somehow. just like these boys, we're moving on to bigger and better things. hopefully.
> 
> happy trails, everyone! prompt me things and come back when I write some more <3

**Author's Note:**

> if anybody's wondering, the events that have transpired and will transpire in the future of this fic are largely, largely based off of my own camp experiences! so, most of the odder things are not, in fact, fake. such as the apple incident. did I do that? ...yes.
> 
> more to come!! keep your ears open, or follow my tumblr @/impalahallows for the updates! I've also got some more writing stuff on my tag #grace writes if you're looking for some more stuff.
> 
> let me know what you liked!! xo


End file.
